She Who Must Live a Lie
by TopazRubyQueen
Summary: -"I will love torturing you far more than I ever loved you..."- Years before these words, Tom Riddle made every effort to convince a certain witch that he is in love with her. Already on his quest for power and immortality, he knows what his true aim is, but Charlotte Soleil, and encountering love, makes him doubt his answers to questions he never thought he'd even ask.
1. Chapter 1

Hey! Thanks for checking out my story!

 **IMPORTANT: August 2018 Update** _I now also have this story on archiveofourown. If you are reading it here for the first time, please know that this entire version_ — _aside from the first chapter, which has already been updated_ — _is now the "old version". **I'm making a lot of changes, rewriting, and updating on AO3 as I do that.** You are of course welcome to read what I've already written here, but it is more like a rough draft. I had originally planned on replacing all the chapters I've already posted here, but have decided to leave things as they are. I don't want to confuse people who have already read all or part of this version by changing everything and then carrying on based on those events. It would feel like switching to a just sightly different AU midstory, hahaha. I encourage you to check out the new version; everything I've learned in the last two years, writing this, goes into making it better. And if your curious to see how the story changed, go ahead and read both~_

Introduction (EDITED 8/10/18):

With the absence of love being a defining characteristic of Voldemort, what better way to understand He Who Must Not Be Named than by imagining him having a somewhat lengthy encounter with love?

So, yes, this might sometimes feel like a typical romance. But there's a reason the other genre is tragedy.

I started out writing this because I thought it was hard to imagine how Tom Riddle could have fooled everyone into believing he was an ordinary person, while committing murders and making horcruxes at the same time, so I wanted to try to write a story of what that might have looked like.

I begin switching between Tom and Charlotte's perspectives regularly from Chapter 5 onward.

An additional note: To say this story is incomplete, in that I'm still updating it, is an understatement; I go back and edit earlier chapters quite often. With each new chapter, I mention whether I've changed anything substantial you would have already read, so you can stay up to date with the latest version if you choose.

The Cover Image: (June 23 '18) I've changed the cover again, this time to something more polished and eye catching, although still not what I'd like... Anyway, I got to visit the studio tour recently (! 100000/10) and of course this story was on my mind, even though I haven't worked on it much in the last months. Looking back through my pictures, this shot of the Chamber of Secrets door seemed like a good base for a cover. (And I think it's alright to use it? I hope?) Just the words and the picture is pretty simple, but I think it looks good enough, until I get something else, haha. ...Also I wish there was a way for me to include additional images of photos I took that would be fitting.

Formatting: A line with only ellipses (...) denotes a break in time, but continuing on the same day, with the same character's perspective. A horizontal line in the story represents a larger time gap and/or a change in POV. Or the end/beginning of the Author's Note section. Like this!

* * *

"He's glanced over at you at least half a dozen times since we sat down to breakfast!" Valeria exclaimed.

"You're seeing what you want to see," Charlotte replied, not looking up from spreading butter on some toast.

"No, if that were the case, I would have seen him looking at me," her friend objected sourly.

She couldn't argue with that. Sighing, she said, "I don't know why you're so intent on pushing us together. You've been saying things like this for weeks—"

"I have not," Valeria interrupted. "I've been saying what a great pair you two would make. But _today,_ I'm finally able to say he's noticing it himself. And now it's up to you to figure it out as well."

"There's nothing to figure out. Imagination _is_ your strength, Val."

A satisfied smile crept onto Valeria's face, Charlotte assumed because of her compliment, but then, nodding in the direction of who they were discussing, she said, "Look right now. You'll see for yourself."

Charlotte turned. To her surprise, Tom Riddle _was_ looking at her, unmistakably. Not the least bit shy, he didn't look away when she saw him, nor did he act embarrassed in any way at all. His gaze was an attentive one that gave the impression he was studying something about her, not so much that he was staring at a girl he found attractive. She supposed her own face mirrored this, because she was a rare case of a girl at Hogwarts, and a Slytherin no less, who was _not_ claiming to be in love with Tom Riddle. There was, of course, no denying he was handsome—and intelligent, ambitious... and as they carried on looking at each other, Charlotte's belief about her detached expression became a bit more of a hope than a certainty. But she couldn't help feeling foolish whenever she imagined becoming part of the crowd of girls who were hopelessly in love with him—the hopelessness of their dreams was near enough a fact, for while Tom behaved politely and sometimes even charmingly towards them, he never showed any interest in forming a relationship beyond that—and Charlotte was decidedly opposed to wishing, pathetically, to be the lucky one.

A small smile appeared on his lips as he broke their eye contact and calmly began talking with his friends. It took Charlotte a moment longer to realize she was continuing to stare. It was all very... intriguingly unexpected.

Valeria cleared her throat. "Not that I was watching, but, from the brief moment that I did glance over," she dropped her voice to a whisper, "that was intense!"

"He was probably looking over here because he knew you were talking about him." Charlotte shrugged. She still wasn't ready to line up with the rest, so to speak, even if it did seem she might be at the front of the queue.

"Simply talking about him never gets that kind of reaction. Just ask... any girl here." Again, she had a point.

"Oh look the mail's here," said Charlotte, glancing up at the dozens of owls swooping in over the tables with their deliveries. She had reason to expect a parcel. Still looking upwards for her owl, she said, "I don't know how you guessed it. Why me? He could have his pick of any girl, I'm not terribly popular and I don't even like him. Ah, there she is!" Her owl landed next to her on the bench, where there was more room for the large package.

"There are several mysteries there, and why he would like you is the least of them." Charlotte cleared some space on the table to open her mail, while Valeria continued. "I can't answer why you aren't the most popular girl in our year, and you _know_ I'm completely at a loss concerning what you think you've found not to like about Tom Riddle, but I can tell you, in case you've forgotten, you're practically top of the class, an intriguing foreigner, you come from an influential family, and when I have my line of fashionable witch's clothing, you had better be willing to model it."

Charlotte smiled; Valeria could find a way to praise just about anything if she wanted to, but that didn't mean it wasn't nice to hear her compliments. She was also glad that her friend had chosen to ignore the explanations for all of her 'mysteries', even though she knew the reason for at least one of them. Granted, doing so made for a better statement and so suited Valeria better anyway, but Charlotte appreciated it all the same. It would have brought to mind a time she preferred not to recall if she could help it.

She had had her chance at extreme popularity when she'd first arrived at Hogwarts in the middle of third year. She was more so the "intriguing foreigner" then, and everyone wanted to know everything they could about her. If the school's curiosity about her were to be renewed now, she could easily make them all her friends, but at that time her state of mind had been so different.

"So what's the package for?"

"My mother just went back to France so of course she had to send gifts, even if it is a time of war."

"She isn't in any danger, is she?" asked Valeria.

"It's a risk for her to go, but her sister still refuses to leave, so once and a while she apparates directly to her house. As far as the muggle war is concerned, it's safe so long as she doesn't run into any soldiers, or anyone who could question her being there. Even without magic, people can still be dangerous. And then there's the Stature of Secrecy." She hesitated for a moment. "But on the continent, one never knows when Grindelwald might be up to something." 'Up to something' was a very light way of putting it, and Charlotte knew that; she was well aware and hated to think about it. Dark magic was more prevalent than ever in Europe, as Grindelwald amassed even more followers, practicing stronger and stronger spells with the intention of raising wizards above muggles.

"Grindelwald…" Valeria repeated breathily, fearfully. "I'm sorry. That sounds difficult to deal with."

"Thanks, Val. It's alright though," Charlotte dismissed her concern. Seriousness and Valeria were infrequent cohorts, and a change in this disposition made Charlotte somewhat uncomfortable, not knowing how to react to the unfamiliar behavior. Still, she was glad of her friend's care for her family. But the topic of Grindelwald was a difficult one, and at this moment she was gladder of the ease with which she could change the subject. Reaching into the box and pulling out a separately wrapped bundle with a note, she said, "Looks like she got some special potions ingredients to give to Professor Slughorn; how thoughtful of her."

"Speaking of Professor Slughorn," Valeria started, "his Christmas party is coming up. I was getting some extra help with potions, you know, in tutoring, which of course you never need, and he mentioned it. He said to be sure to tell you you'll be invited. And you know who _else_ will be there?"

Tom Riddle would, of course, be invited. But Charlotte answered, "He always invites an interesting assortment of people he knows. I look forward to meeting all of them."

"You won't indulge me, fine. But I have a prediction, and we'll just see if I'm right," Valeria said.

The two girls carried on with their breakfast, Charlotte sorted through the contents of her parcel, and they did some last minute homework before their first class began, which was Herbology. They trudged down the hill to the greenhouses through the morning fogginess, each breath visible in the frigid late-November air.

"You would think, as witches and wizards, we would have a way to get down here _without_ subjecting ourselves to that weather," Valeria said, flinging several chunks of snow off the bottom of her cloak before entering the greenhouse. They stepped inside. "At least I can do something about this dampness." She cast a drying spell to relieve them of the chilly moisture. An interest in pursuing a career in fashion had led her to make it her business to be an expert in all clothing-related, or potentially clothing-related, magic. "There we go," she said with a smile. Charlotte thanked her and they joined their classmates around the long wooden table, which today was covered in piles of seeds.

Back home, Charlotte's family had had a rather large garden, which she helped to tend and had spent a lot of time in. She imagined in her future home she would have a similar garden, so learning about all kind of magical plants delighted her in anticipation of that. However it also produced in her an unhappy nostalgia for her life in France.

When the class ended, she left her things momentarily to look at some of the plants; Professor Beery had evidently acquired some new varieties, which were on a shelf on the other side of the greenhouse. She spent longer examining them than she had intended, for when she thought to go back and gather her belongings, almost all of her classmates had gone. She rushed back to the table to finish packing away her things.

Just as she fastened the closure of her bag and was turning to leave, someone said, "For a moment, I thought you were going to skip Charms altogether and stare at those plants all day." In her haste as she turned around, her bag swung into some pots, causing one of them to tumble to the ground with a crash. She reached for her wand, but the person who had spoken was faster.

Now facing him, she found it was Tom Riddle. How interesting... Maybe there was something to Valeria's speculations. " _Reparo_ ," he said. Shattered clay pieces joined together again like a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. With a swift movement of his hand, he levitated the pot to its place in a stack with the others.

"Thank you, although I could have done it myself," Charlotte said, walking quickly towards the door in his direction.

"Of course. I'm in your Charms class, I know you could have done it beautifully." She stopped. Now he was paying her compliments?

Partly turning back to face him, she asked, "Do you intend to make it to Charms today? At your leisurely pace, I'm not sure you'll make it." She didn't know why she said it. She could have just said 'thank you' and carried on walking.

But now he was standing next to her, with an amused smile, saying, "You don't mind if I walk with you, do you? We're both taking the same path anyway." When he put it like that, there was really only one answer. But she supposed deciding to ask, and not simply following alongside her, was courteous.

"As long as you don't mind walking quickly," she answered, with a smile she found she couldn't help. "I'd still prefer not to be late if possible."

"As would I." Another exchange of smiles and they were on their way.

Half expecting him to transform into someone else, she kept glancing over at him as they walked. And he probably noticed, but he was probably used to it, because girls were staring at him all the time— And now she was doing it too. She brought her attention away from him and stared determinedly at the ground. At least he hadn't looked back at her. They had already done that once that day, and it was still distracting her.

"This morning," she began, before she realized what she was saying. They did make eye contact then.

She must have been looking at him inquisitively enough for him to understand without any further words, because he said, "All these months we've spent, two Slytherins in the same year, and we hardly ever speak. Anyway, not as often as I'd like." Without her asking anything, he entirely evaded her question, yet somehow answered it at the same time. But his answer surprised her.

"You know—I'm sure you know; I imagine it's your intention, to give the impression that you don't want to talk to most people. I wouldn't have expected to be any exception."

"That's true," he said with a smile, pleased she had recognized that, she supposed, "I've established a group and I don't see much need for any extraneous relationships, acquaintances and— But I'd like to think of you differently. ...I _would_ like to make you an exception."

"You speak about it as though it were some kind of great privilege." Her sarcastic tone would have been better suited to something... less true. It _did_ feel like she was getting special treatment. She wished she hadn't said it.

After a long pause, Tom said, "I don't know about that, but... I would consider it a privilege if you would accompany me, as my date, to Professor Slughorn's Christmas party at the end of the term."

"Would you?" was the only immediate reply she could give. It came out hopeful. She found she didn't mind that. Even so, she considered declining just to see how he would take it. Or maybe a conditional agreement? Treating her question as rhetorical, which it was, he was still waiting for her answer.

"I would never hear the end of it if I turned you down, so... yes," she said finally.

"I'll have to thank Valeria sometime," he replied, making Charlotte laugh.

By this time they had reached the castle. Hurrying to get to Charms on time, they didn't speak anymore as they briskly made their way upstairs and through the corridors. They were still late for class.

"Miss Soleil, Mr. Riddle, can you explain yourselves? As a prefect I would think you would want to set an example of punctuality, Mr. Riddle." Professor Runewood said by way of greeting as they entered her class.

Valeria piped up in their defense. "Professor Beery had something to tend to and he headed off as soon as Herbology was finished, asked Riddle, as a prefect, to make sure everything got put back in order after we all left." Charlotte had been so absorbed in studying the new specimens, she hadn't noticed this, if it was even true.

"And then we accidentally broke a pot and had to mend it," Tom added.

" _I_ broke the pot," Charlotte said to him.

"No, if I hadn't startled you, you wouldn't have bumped it," Tom corrected. Charlotte was fairly certain his sudden comment coinciding with the accident was a coincidence, but she let him take the blame since he was being very insistent, and it didn't really matter one way or the other.

"Very well, I see you have a reason at least," the Charms professor interjected. "Have a seat. You two, work together since you're the last to arrive. We don't need to waste anymore class time rearranging partners to be with our friends," she gave a sideways glance in Valeria's direction. The girl feigned an innocently surprised expression, then laughed.

"Oh Professor I'm quite happy to work with Ogden here." She gestured to the student sitting beside her, a fellow Slytherin girl. Valeria looked across the room at Charlotte and winked.

...

" _Charlotte_ , it was _my_ fault the pot broke in Herbology, I _won't_ let _you_ take the blame for it." Valeria raised her voice to its normal pitch and broke into a fit of giggles. Charlotte threw a pillow at her from her bed.

"He didn't say it like that at all," she contradicted, but was laughing too.

"No, no, but the intent was there." Valeria threw the pillow back. "And to think, just this morning—"

Charlotte groaned. "I don't want to hear it." The words were lighthearted, however.

"This is very exciting for me as well, you know. _Because_ when you wear the dress that I'm going to design for you,"—and she was already sorting through materials—"people will be paying a lot more attention."

"Well I'm glad _someone_ can benefit from that; I daresay there are certain kinds of attention I'll be getting now that I'd rather not get."

"I'd tell you not to worry, but—" Valeria closed the lid of her second trunk, "caution does seem advisable. You never know what jealousy will make people to do." Then added, with the look of someone about to go into a daydream, "Especially when there's an _extraordinarily_ handsome boy involved." After a pause, she said, "You have nothing to fear from me, of course, and that was not a fantasy about Tom exactly, but I just realized I don't think I truly expected to be right. I can't believe I was actually right and this is happening! Now with regard to the dress, it's lucky that I had already started collecting some things and planning; I have this amazing—" She finally noticed that Charlotte was sitting there silently, looking a bit troubled.

When Valeria stopped, she said, "I think you're more excited about all this than I am," and laughed weakly, which made thoroughly unsuccessful her attempt to distract from the concern she had been showing.

"Maybe I should have just said not to worry."

"That wouldn't have changed the fact that what you _did_ say is true," Charlotte answered. "I've already noticed some people are treating me differently, and not in a good way..." Between classes one of her classmates had bumped into her, hard, and given the most unapologetic 'sorry'. And she could imagine plenty of other, worse things—rumours being started, tricks being played...

"I wouldn't expect that to last very long," Valeria reassured her. "People will get tired of it or instead realize that they're simply _impressed_ by the two of you. Sort of like how people treat Tom himself. And actually, I'd be very surprised if he let people get away with that sort of thing." That was true, but that would mean having to tell him, and that gave her the impression that she would be running to Tom every time someone was rude to her, however often that happened.

"I suppose it's no use worrying about these things that may not even happen," Charlotte said. Valeria nodded. "Why don't you distract me, though? Tell me about the designs you've come up with." She smiled.

"Well, I have this." She unfolded an odd patchwork of furs. "I know, it looks strange, but the finished product won't be all of these at the same time, see. It'll change from one to the next—it's easier if I have real examples of the colors and textures to work with to enchant it. Originally I was going to make this for myself, but I think it'll be better if I make it part of your outfit..."

* * *

"Aha!" Lestrange exclaimed upon seeing Tom come into the room, jumping up from where he lay on his bed. Tom turned around from putting some things away in his trunk to find him leaning against a bedpost, having followed him across the room. Clearly he had something to say. Tom hoped it wouldn't be too... personal. But he had a suspicion he was hoping in vain.

"I wondered what you were up to when you said there was 'something you had to do' after Herbology today." Exactly what he expected. Personal.

"Really? You couldn't guess, Lestrange?" Avery smirked from where he sat on his bed, taking apart some kind of magical device—Tom couldn't see what exactly, probably dark in nature. "He'd just been ogling Charlotte Soleil before he said it."

"I wasn't— I don't _ogle_ anyone." Tom cut in icily, but with a calmness. Meanwhile, Lestrange hit Avery with a book. Sometimes they were irritatingly immature.

"Of course you don't. You've always said romance isn't worth your time. And _that's why_ ," he looked pointedly at Avery, "I didn't suspect anything in Herbology." And sometimes they were reassuringly loyal.

"But then, all through Charms—" Avery added, "with you showing her the wandwork, by _holding her hand_."

"All through Charms is an exaggeration," Lestrange corrected. Accurately. "But," he shifted his attention to Tom, giving him a knowing look. As if he understood him. "I did see it happen, and there's no other explanation for that really."

Avery was nodding, then he looked at Tom. "You're finally learning what the rest of us already knew. Life's a bit better with a girl to demonstrate good wandwork for."

"I _don't_ agree," Tom said simply, stepping past Lestrange to get to his own bed. "I still say romance for the sake of itself would be a waste of my time and my energy, but Charlotte is..." He stopped himself saying anything that would sound like the beginnings of a proclamation of love. "She'll be useful to me," he finished. The other two boys were still watching him as he sat down and opened a book. "Yes, I asked her to Professor Slughorn's party and, yes, I plan on spending time with her in the future. But it's much more complicated than... whatever it is you two are talking about."

He thought he'd heard Lestrange groan when he mentioned the party and, glancing up, saw him rummaging in his pocket, then toss some coins at Avery. Tom slammed his book shut and stood up, striding over to them looking indignant. Avery had left what were clearly his winnings from some kind of wager where they landed.

"Obviously Lestrange was just looking for something to throw at me."

"You're pathetic at lying, Avery," Tom spat. And then more slowly, "Don't bother. Least of all, to me." He held out his hand, palm up. "I think I'll be taking that." He tilted his head in the direction of the money. Avery, making no expression of any kind, scooped up the handful of sickles and knuts and dropped them into Tom's hand.

Pocketing the coins, he added, "And, in the future, don't make bets over anything concerning— me." More specifically he meant what could only be referred to as his 'love life', or something similar, but he couldn't use those words. He might manage 'my relationship with Charlotte' some time in the future, but for now even that made his stomach turn. Which was part of the very reason he was giving himself this task, of seeking her devotion. It was silly of him to have such an emotional response to something like that... And there would be other advantages.

Flattery, for one, was a useful skill—one that he had experience with already, but none with the type that hinted at romantic intentions, and that could be especially effective, in the right circumstances. He wouldn't dare try it currently, knowing he would give away his true feelings too easily and fail in the attempt. But once he learned better self-control in that regard, there would be no problem. At this point, his affections, false though they were, had to fall on someone worthy—as worthy as anyone _could_ be.

Charlotte Soleil was exactly the right person. She was even pureblood. If he couldn't manage to pretend to have a romantic interest in her, there was little chance of success on any woman. He did like a bit of a challenge, however, and she was near enough the only one who could offer that, being, conveniently, not already won over by him. That made the exercise into a true test of his ability.

And then there were the rewards, once he reached that point. He'd meant it when he'd told Avery and Lestrange that she would be useful. It was his impression of her that she shied away from most anything that might lead to an argument, and she did this by agreeing. There could be no one easier to manipulate than a person like that, so malleable. Weakening her further, he would easily be able to make her into whatever he needed her to be, convince her of anything, craft her into the form that would best suit his purpose.

It was a shame it was also such an unattractive quality, seeing as, through all of this, he would have to continue to make her believe he was very attracted to her. That would make it more difficult. But she was talented, pretty, wealthy and well-connected—plenty of genuinely attractive qualities...

They had been sitting in silence for a while, but he had one last thing to say to Avery, "You should be better at deception. Practice on some girl you want to impress or something. Since you think that's so important."

"I should be, yes. I'll do that," he answered stiffly.

"Good."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Okay so I just jump right in without any setting development, character description—nothing at all. To be honest, I'm not sure I like that. (Edit: I wasn't sure, but now I'm cool with it~) At any rate, throughout this first chapter, you get to know a bit about the characters and a little about current events. That's sort of how this goes—helpful background information being dropped in here and there. Call it an unintentional stylistic choice. Any feedback would, of course, be much appreciated! My specific question to you is what do you think of the characters? Namely Charlotte and Valeria, those two being my main OCs for this story.


	2. Chapter 2

A week passed with little incident. Valeria continued to partner up with Josephine Ogden in Charms class so that Charlotte would be forced to work with Tom, during which time she realized he was certainly not to be underestimated in his aptitude for magic. They spent time together outside of classes too, and people were beginning to talk, not only Valeria.

The weather became even colder and snowier as December began. If it weren't for magic, this time of year it would be very difficult to keep the Slytherin common room, dormitories, and the rest of the dungeon beneath the castle warm. With its window into the black lake, the common room was especially prone to losing its heat. However, the Slytherins would never complain about this—at least not within earshot of anyone from the other houses, life in the dungeons being a point of ridicule against Slytherins. Still, it made seats near the fireplace a highly desired thing, arguments breaking out all too frequently about who could sit there. It usually fell to the prefects to quell these disputes.

On an evening when such a disagreement had resulted in the acquisition of two of the coveted chairs by the prefect himself, namely Tom Riddle, the other being for Charlotte (not the most fair of decisions, but these were Slytherins, not Hufflepuffs), Valeria caused a scene in promotion of some new enchanted clothing she had made.

"Is anyone else a bit hot or is it just me?" she asked loudly, prompting a number of confused looks from others around the room; it was by no means hot.

"Whatever you do, don't come near me! You've probably got a fever and I can't get sick now; we've got exams!" someone exclaimed.

"If that's true you should go to the hospital wing," said someone else.

Valeria smiled. "Don't worry, I'm not ill. It must be my robe because I enchanted it to give off heat on the inside. It's working very well!" Once again it seemed she had found a way to use magic for the purpose of making, or in this case enhancing, clothing.

"Please make me one!"

"Me too!"

"Absolutely, I'd be happy to," said Valeria, pulling out a roll of parchment and a quill to take down orders.

Charlotte looked away from the scene with a smile. "It's brilliant, the things we can do with magic," she said to Tom.

"I agree," he answered.

"I don't know what I would do if one day I lost the ability to do magic. I think I would go mad with depression—of course, magic only ceases in a person when they're in a desperate state like that to begin with…"

"What do you mean? We can stop being magical?" Tom asked with a sudden seriousness.

It surprised her that he didn't already know about this, but she explained, and a hint of relief shown on his face as she did so. "A witch or wizard's magic can weaken in certain states of prolonged emotional strain. It's not very common though." Charlotte only knew of one case personally.

"I've never heard that before. How did you learn about it?" he asked.

"I believe it was from my father," she said. That was believable; she didn't want to tell the true story to him then.

"Ah, yes, you must learn a great deal from him. His position in the wizarding political world suggests he is very intelligent."

"He is," Charlotte agreed. She wondered then if the reason Tom had befriended her had anything to do with an interest in her father's knowledge of current events and influence. Careful attention to his questions in future would help her determine this.

Just then she noticed a group of girls nearby casting scornful looks in her direction, the least subtle of whom was a fourth year by the name of Perdita Pepper. Tom looked up and, seeing her staring, followed her gaze to see what had drawn her attention. "Oh," he said somewhat under his breath, irritation discernable in the exhalation that followed. "Perdita Pepper. She... fancies me. I should have warned you that you could be making yourself the enemy of a great many girls when you agreed to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with me." He smiled. He didn't say the words "a great many girls" with much conceit, as one might have expected; rather, he sounded a bit weary, tired of the attention, but mostly he simply sounded like he was stating a fact. "I believe she and some others have even tried to give me love potions, in various forms: sweets, tipping it into my drink at a mealtime—a hopeless endeavor; I immediately saw what she did. And once, someone during Care of Magical Creatures, whom I think you know, brought me water that was more than just water."

"Valeria didn't!" Charlotte interjected in shock, although she had to admit she was not entirely surprised.

Riddle smiled. "I'm afraid she did, but it doesn't matter." He shrugged. "I didn't take it."

"I always suspected some girls had tried that on you, although I honestly didn't think Val would go to such lengths… " She continued, "But don't worry about me; I think I can handle some envious girls."

* * *

"Arms out ," directed a creatively engaged Valeria. It was the morning after the exposition of her warming robe to the Slytherins. Charlotte was standing in front of her wearing the beginnings of her dress for the party. The aspiring designer had come up with a winter-inspired enchantment for her friend's dress, so she said. Charlotte had yet to discover what it was.

"I'm just fixing this sash on the side here…" Valeria said. "After this, it'll be time for the charm."

"Now can you tell me what you're going to do to it?" Charlotte asked.

"Let's just say, you'll be able to do some studying for Astronomy with it."

"And yours?"

"That, you'll have to wait and see in a week's time." Valeria picked up her wand from the bedside table. The two of them were standing in their dormitory, between beds scattered with various fabrics, as well as the fur trim for the neckline of Charlotte's gown.

They were the only two occupants of their dormitory, and Valeria put the extra space to plenty of use with her projects. Charlotte had a feeling this had been at least as much of an incentive for Valeria to move as she herself, the exciting newcomer, had been. The number of students at the time had been such that there was no room to add Charlotte to. When she arrived at Hogwarts, it had only been Valeria who was to be her new roommate, although her future best friend assured her most everyone had wanted to room with her, but certain things stopped them from making the switch.

It turned out that the fur could be made to appear as the fur from different animals by tugging the sash. However, Valeria couldn't get it quite right—instead it was constantly changing as soon as the sash was pulled. As for the hint about studying for Astronomy, the skirt, floor-length and very full, was bewitched to feature the winter sky, the magical part being that the stars twinkled, and faint lines would appear to show the constellations from time to time.

"Are you certain you don't want a snowing shawl?" Valeria asked, referring to a garment she had charmed to drop a gentle snowfall.

"I think one of us leaving a trail of snow on the ground will be quite enough."

"It disappears after a short while, no puddles or anything," Valeria insisted, turning to fold some of the materials on the bed. "I have to have one; it goes superbly with the ice queen look I'm going for."

"I can't wait to see," Charlotte said excitedly. "This will be an excellent way to end the term—finish exams, there's the school-wide feast, then our special Slug Club celebration, then it's home to Christmas with family."

"I hope you don't mention that around Riddle," Valeria said seriously. "Seeing as he hasn't got a family to go to for the holidays."

"Well he stays here. And he likes Hogwarts very much, so I think he's content with that." She didn't think that the matter was too concerning. Then an almost cheeky grin appeared on her face and she asked, "Is it true you once tried to give him a love potion?"

Valeria froze, the silky charmeuse in her hands slipping to the floor. "He told you that?" She turned her head slowly around to look at Charlotte, her face absolutely red. "I-I was a foolish fourteen year old, and some things happened that I regret."

"Fourteen? That was hardly more than a year ago," Charlotte said with a laugh.

"I'll have you know it was almost two years ago!" Abruptly she buried her face in her hands. "Oh, no don't remind me!" Charlotte bent down to retrieve the fallen fabric.

"Well, you're not the only one."

"Somehow that doesn't make me feel much better, but thanks." She removed her hands from her face, which was now merely pink instead of red. "So, you and Tom have been talking about love potions?" she asked with raised eyebrows in a knowing sort of way, directing the conversation to one of her favorite subjects. "Are the two of you thinking about concocting some of your own?" Charlotte looked at her with confusion, uncertain if this was meant to be some kind of euphemism, or why they would literally need to make any kind of love potions when there was already an attraction, despite however minimal it was on Charlotte's part, between them. Valeria noticed her expression and with a nonchalant shrug, said, "Some couples use them because if you both take it things can get _really_ passionate; you're less inhibited or something like that."

"I will refrain from asking you how you know that."

Valeria shot her a displeased look. "I read it in a magazine—a fashion magazine. Actually it was on the cover so I couldn't really help it."

"So what are your plans for the day?" Charlotte asked, changing the subject.

"Huh? You've forgotten it's a Hogsmeade weekend!" Valeria cried.

" _Zut_! I did. And I had planned to do some homework today," she replied. "I haven't even started the Muggle Studies essay."

"That's due Monday! I suppose you could probably write it all tomorrow."

"And study for Ancient Runes and Transfiguration?"

"Well, I don't have Ancient Runes with you, but I hear you're a natural. So I doubt you need to study that much."

"Our grades this year are really important! They help us decide our future!" Charlotte was clearly conflicted, but her better judgment with regard to her schoolwork had won out.

"Fine! Fine. It's up to you. Stay here and study. I'll drink a butterbeer for you at The Three Broomsticks." Valeria gave in.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** The comment Valeria makes about the love potions-I thought it was funny, and I realized it takes inspiration from modern magazines (probably they didn't have articles like that in the 1940s, but I left it in, and we can pretend the reference is less anachronistic than it is).


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** This chapter will be revised soon, but the plot and idea of it will remain the same.

* * *

Valeria and the others having left for Hogsmeade, Charlotte went to the common room to work on her essay, only to find a group of first and second years who, in the absence of most of the older students, were having some kind of wizard card trading bazaar. Unable to focus while listening to cries of "I've got Wendelin the Weird! Who wants to trade for Wendelin the Weird?" and "Merlins! Get your Merlins here! Most famous wizard of all time, folks; everyone needs a Merlin for their collection!", Charlotte left for the library instead.

Arriving in the library, she noticed Tom, poring over a book, a stack of others next to it. Joining him seemed like the obvious thing to do. She approached his table and pulled out a chair. Tom looked up, smiled, and closed the book, pushing it aside.

"Hello, Charlotte. I'm surprised you aren't in Hogsmeade."

"I forgot all about it and had planned on studying today." she answered. "What about you? Surely you haven't got some assignment due that you put off? Like I have."

"No," he laughed, although there might have been some judgment in it. "I just wasn't interested in going to Hogsmeade."

She glanced over at the book he had evidently just finished with. The title read _Wizarding Families Compendium IX_. "Studying for end of term exams?" she asked.

He nodded. "History of Magic."

"Ah. Morgan le Fey's lineage then?" Charlotte ventured a guess as to the topic of his research.

"No wonder you always get top marks, very astute," he said. "I started out doing schoolwork, and then I found myself delving into wizarding ancestry; I think it's very interesting."

"It can be. Mostly when it's your own," she replied. "In my opinion."

"Do you know much about your family, your ancestry?"

"Some," she answered. "Well, a lot actually—I just haven't read it; my mum's got books worth, you see. My father's family has been in France for centuries, my mother's too, but not for quite as long; I think they came from Germany before that. Some notable duelers, potioneers, politicians—a bit of everything really."

"Must be nice," Tom said wistfully, but not without exposing a certain degree of anger in his voice.

"You don't know your family's history, do you?"

"No."

"It's interesting to know, but really it doesn't matter. Who your parents were, or their parents. You for instance, are a great wizard, and people will admire you for that. People's legacies ought to be built on their own merits, don't you think?" She smiled and after a moment Tom smiled back. Then his eyes narrowed in thought.

"But you're a pureblood."

"Yes."

"And you enjoy certain esteem on that account?"

"Yes."

He raised his eyebrows, communicating his question.

"That's…more general. It's not the same as what I was talking about."

"Hm." Tom said no more on the subject.

They sat in silence, Tom thumbing through the pages of one of his books, while Charlotte pulled out some parchment to work on the Muggle Studies essay she had been avoiding. The assigned topic was different for everyone; hers was automobiles. Valeria had gotten electricity, at first, but managed to convince Professor White to allow her to write on muggle clothing instead, presenting the fact that blending in with muggle society was a challenge for wizards when it came to dress especially, and perhaps she, Valeria, would work to improve that in future.

Realizing that right in front of her was a person who had lived around muggles most of his life, she tapped on the back of the book Tom was reading to get his attention. "Sorry to bother you, but…" He lowered the book.

"Do you need help with something?"

"Yes. Well, sort of. You've lived in the muggle world," Charlotte began. Riddle's face changed, his jaw clenched, but Charlotte continued despite observing these signs that he regarded his time around muggles resentfully. "So, what can you tell me about au-to-mo-biles?" she inquired, slipping into her French accent as said the word by syllable, which sounded like "otomobeels". Tom regained his normal pleasant expression.

"Automobiles," he said correctly. "Or cars, they're also called. What do you want to know about them?"

Charlotte shrugged. "How about how you, um, steer them?" she asked, uncertain of the word she was using.

"There's a steering wheel"—he drew a circle in the air—"and when it's turned then the wheels turn. But maybe you mean how you _drive_ them?" She nodded. "There are also pedals you press with your foot, one to make it go and one to make it stop." He spoke with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

"And what makes it move, since it isn't magic?"

"They have to put something called petrol [gasoline] in it, and if it runs out, it stops. There's something called an engine… I don't really know."

"That sounds very inconvenient," Charlotte said. "I suppose I can compare and contrast a car with wizarding modes of transportation. It's most similar to a broomstick, probably. Only unreliable, by the sounds of it," she said, thinking of the need for petrol. Suddenly she let out an exasperated sort of sigh and pushed her parchment away from her.

"I _hate_ Muggle Studies. I'd have dropped it already if I could."

"Why did you take it?" Tom asked, with some evident distaste.

"Silly thirteen-year-old me thought it was a good idea. I had a real fear that we were somehow all going to be found out because of this war—well, both Grindelwald's and the one the muggles are fighting. I'd just had to leave my home country, my friends, Beauxbatons—and I blamed war for that. I imagined that we would be forced to interact with muggles, so I thought it would be useful to understand their ways. I no longer believe that, so most of the time I'm left loathing the class because it just feels foolish to invest so much energy trying to understand things I'll never come in contact with or need to use. And I wish I could take Arithmancy instead." Tom smiled at this.

"Yes, Arithmancy is fascinating," he agreed. "What made you stop thinking the muggles would find out about us?"

She thought for a while before answering. "When I was little, I thought magic could do anything, made us all practically invincible. Every problem seemed to have a solution in magic; of course I eventually learned that there are some things magic can't do. But third year, when I came here, I was emotional and illogical and, frankly, still a child; so I got scared." Then her tone changed, "I didn't want to lose the world of magic like I'd lost everything else…" She smiled to herself. "I never made that connection until just now."

The way she spoke about magic resonated with Tom. There was a kind of excited energy in him as he listened, but it faded as the continuation of her explanation led to talking about herself, so she did not notice the almost frightening expression on his face, as he thought about the power of magic.

Shaking herself out of the revelation she had just had, Charlotte finished what she had been saying. "I soon went back to believing that magic was powerful enough we had nothing to fear. Because wizards are fundamentally superior to muggles; we can do all the things a muggle human can do, but we can also do more," Charlotte said. "We even tend to live longer than they do," she added. A sort of glow appeared in Tom's eyes.

"Indeed, we can," he said quietly.

"Although," Charlotte said reflectively, "I will say that the wizarding world is too tied to tradition."

"How do you mean?" Little did he know that asking this would launch her into a speech on a matter that, evidently, she had given a lot of consideration to.

"Muggles have things like electricity, and we're still lighting our halls with candles. Muggles used to use candles, but now they don't because they invented something better. Yet do we embrace the future as they do? No, we reject it. Of course, electricity is not so simple a matter, not a good example in this case; we'd have to be connected to some source of power, meaning either having our own, or using the muggles', which is entirely unthinkable." Charlotte's speech accelerated as she continued talking. Then, after a break in her long-winded thought, she said, "Make no mistake, I don't in any way esteem muggles above us, but I thoroughly dislike our kind's dismissal of things that could be of use to us, as well as their refusal to think more progressively."

"Thoroughly." Tom repeated with a laugh, choosing to emphasize this word from Charlotte's speech, as it highlighted the intensity, the enthusiasm, with which she had spoken. She laughed too, a bit of a nervous laugh, as she considered that given that the majority of Tom's friends came from pureblood supremacist families, he was likely to think the same way, and her comments had not been entirely in agreement with typical pureblood philosophy.

"You must think me a very peculiar pureblood, expressing such ideas," she said.

"It does strike me as unusual, but I can see the reason in them."

This relieved Charlotte's concern. She didn't want to give him cause to change his mind about her, especially now that more or less everyone in Slytherin house was aware they were going out (even though this was not exactly the case, as she had only agreed to go to the Christmas party with him, nothing more). Discovering that she enjoyed spending time with him, his intelligence and humor making for excellent conversation, she didn't want their friendship, or whatever it was, to be lost.

...

"I have a confession to make," Valeria said very seriously. "I'm sorry, but I didn't get a butterbeer on your behalf at The Three Broomsticks." She cracked a smile. Charlotte laughed.

"And why not?" she asked, feigning disapproval.

"Well I opened the door, took a step inside, decided I didn't want to _stand_ to drink it, and walked right back out. I will admit I braved the crowds in Honeydukes so that I could stock up on sugar quills and toothflossing stringmints, but those are _essentials."_ She laughed. "Oh and I got some licorice wands. Do you want one?"

"Yes please!" Charlotte took the sweet from her friend. "So what did you do the rest of the time? Hang around Gladrags Wizardwear?"

"No, I fancied a visit to the Hog's Head to pet the goats," Valeria answered sarcastically. Then giving her real answer, "I chatted with the shopkeeper, Lorelei, until some pesky third-years came in—I could tell they were third-years because they were gawking over everything like they'd never been there before—wanting to try on a bunch of things, but they didn't spend a sickle, the little trolls. Anyway, how was your day? Are you an Ancient Runes expert now?"

"I didn't study Ancient Runes yet."

"Well you finished the essay, right?"

"I worked on it." After speaking with Tom, she had in fact written up a draft of her paper.

"Hm. I guess it _is_ a good thing you stayed back from Hogsmeade today…"

"I talked to Tom for a while. He was here too."

"Oh! If that was your intention all along you could have just said so," Valeria laughed.

"I didn't know he was going to be there," Charlotte said. "But he told me about cars, for the Muggle Studies assignment."

"He told you about cars?" she repeated in surprise.

"Yes. What's so shocking about that?"

"Haven't you noticed he almost never talks about Muggle things?" Her face broke into a grin. "He must _really_ like you."

* * *

Thus began the week of exams.

Transfiguration went smoothly despite Charlotte's neglect of the extra practice she had intended. The Astronomy exam required them to take part of the test at night, which caused a great deal of grumbling about missed sleep from some students, while from others, an excitement about being out in the castle at that time without breaking any rules. Everything went quite well, until Potions, when Charlotte accidently skipped a step in brewing her Wiggenweld potion; when their time was up, she had managed to improve it to some extent, but she was certain her grade would suffer.

But with Potions, her last exam, out of the way, it was almost the hour of Slughorn's Christmas party.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** You'll notice I've tried to use British vocabulary when I can and it appears in the dialogue, with American equivalent following in brackets. I totally made up the Wizarding Family Compendium IX book that Riddle was reading (maybe you can guess what he was actually doing—not researching for History of Magic like Charlotte thought) and I also made up Lorelei as the name of the shopkeeper at Gladrags Wizardwear, but I did use some canon references with the chocolate frog cards, all the types of candy Valeria mentions, and also the joke about the Hog's Head Inn. Hope you're enjoying my story! Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Here is the longest chapter yet! (And not just because of the massive A/N at the end...) Tom and Charlotte go to Slughorn's Christmas party. Keep an eye out for reference to a certain marauder's parents. ;) By the way, the next chapter will be from Tom's perspective, so get excited for that! I'm pretty pleased with it; I may have to post it right away.

* * *

At the foot of the stairs that led from the Slytherin girls' dormitories to the common room, Charlotte stood, feeling somewhat anxious. Valeria had just gone up before her and she heard her voice echo down the stairs, "Tom, Charlotte will be here in just a moment! See you there." Then there was the sound of her heels clicking away, leaving for the party ahead of them because she didn't want to impose on their time together, she had said. Charlotte took a deep breath, let it out, breathed again. She thought about how Tom was just a person, and how _he_ had been the one to ask her to be his date while she had shown no interest in him before. She started up the stairs. The common room was decorated for Christmas now, with more green light than usual gleaming around the room. Tom sat on a sofa next to one of the Christmas trees. He stood up, smiling, when Charlotte entered and went over to him.

"You look lovely," he said. Charlotte wanted to tell him how lovely he looked as well, but wasn't sure she could compliment his looks without it sounding weird. He was always handsome, but she had never seen him in dress robes before.

"Thank you."

There was a small pile of gifts underneath the Christmas tree already, which Tom looked down at, and subsequently one rose up beside them. He put his hand underneath it and held it out to Charlotte. She stared at the small, neatly wrapped box. "Since you'll be away for Christmas," he said.

She took the gift, feeling slightly guilty because she had nothing to give in return. Looking back at Tom, she said, "I have plans to get something for you over the break. It'll be a Christmas and birthday gift." It wasn't a lie; she'd just made the plan before she said it.

Tom gave a small smile. "You don't have to get me anything," he said.

"Yes. Yes, I do," Charlotte laughed.

"Open your present."

She tore away the shimmering green wrapping paper and opened the box, gasping as she saw a beautiful necklace inside. "Thank you, Tom!" It was silver with three sapphires set into it, and very small emeralds in a row along the chain. It matched her dress well. "You know, when I was considering wearing a necklace with this dress, Valeria said it didn't need it. What a coincidence, hm?" she grinned.

"I never would have been able to afford such an extravagant thing," Tom said humbly. "I helped Valeria pay for it; she wanted me to be the one to give it to you, but it's a gift from her as well."

"I'll be sure and tell her thank you when I see her. Did she really go? I'd expect her to be lurking somewhere watching this," she laughed. Tom laughed too, softly. Then he reached for the necklace, holding it up to her neck.

"May I?" he asked. Charlotte nodded and started to turn around, but he stopped her. "I can fasten it this way." She expected him to do so magically, especially given that he was making things travel around by levitation every opportunity he got. But he didn't this time.

While he fastened the clasp of the necklace, her eyes drifted from one facial feature to the next—his cheekbones, his jawline, his nose, his eyes; she thought of her previous disinclination towards him and those others who quite possibly would kill to be her at this moment. Some of that sentiment still persisting in her, she reproached herself for getting so caught up in admiring his visage. His fingers lingered on her neck and collarbone after the necklace was put on. In this, Charlotte found another reason to be pleased he had chosen not to use magic. That is, until she came to the uncomfortable realization that he could very easily feel her pulse beneath his fingertips—her pulse, which was plainly saying his touch put her in a state of excitement. She could maintain a calm expression, but heart rate was different story, and she would have preferred to keep her emotions concealed in this instance. "There," he said, lowering his hands. "Shall we go?" He offered her his arm gallantly.

The party was being held in an unused classroom on the fourth floor. The two headed for the main stairs.

"This is your first time going to one of Slughorn's Christmas parties, isn't it?" Tom asked as they walked along.

"Yes," Charlotte said. "The first year I was here, I... didn't want to go. And last year I left school for home as soon as exams were over—family emergency of sorts."

"Oh, a family emergency? I hope I haven't made you recall any bad memories by bringing that up."

She avoided eye contact with Tom as she tried to hide the expression she couldn't prevent from flashing across her face. The bad memories weren't hers, but they reminded her of what an awful place the world could sometimes be. But her voice concealed all of this as she said, "No, it's fine. My aunt who lives in France wrote us that she was ill, and we wanted to go visit her as soon as possible. Turns out she wasn't as sick as she had made it sound;—I think she just wanted to see us, poor woman—she had made a full recovery by the time I came back to Hogwarts." _Poor woman_. A gross understatement. She's been through tragedy, real tragedy, of the worst kind—betrayal, death of loved ones… But Charlotte didn't need the think about that, especially not right then; she was going to a party, to enjoy herself. And Tom didn't need to have a story like that dropped on him when he was trying to have a good time too; luckily, he didn't ask anything more about it.

Walking quickly, they had made it to the grand staircase already. A number of students stared at them as they went by. Charlotte thought it would be a good idea to display Valeria's handiwork on her gown;—after all, her friend did hope to make a career out of these skills one day—she pulled on the trailing ribbon of the sash to set the magical properties of the wide trimming of fur around the top of her dress in to motion. Tom watched as it switched from rabbit, to fox, to ermine, although Charlotte sensed he may have been looking at something other than the magically changing fur across her chest.

They walked the rest of the way without saying much. A scent like Christmas candles wafted down the corridor as they approached the classroom. It was accompanied by the sound of joyful conversation and laughter. The occasion promised to be a good time.

An elevated platform with stairs leading onto it hung above a quarter of the room to give the guests more space. There were tables set up with beverages and food, including a chocolate fountain that Charlotte was especially looking forward to tasting. One of the centerpieces was an elaborate gingerbread castle, beside it a sign that read "DO NOT TOUCH. To be served later." Everything looked spectacularly festive and the food, delicious.

Valeria waved at them from near the stairs to the terrace. Her dress was light blue and plain, so certainly there was more to it than met the eye. Charlotte walked over to her, still on Tom's arm.

"Let's see the dress then," she said.

" _Glacies appare_." Valeria twirled around. The bodice of her dress appeared to frost over, starting at the neckline. The skirt looked like fractured ice on the surface of a lake. And of course there was the shawl, which had been snowing the entire time. So was the ceiling in some places, however, so Valeria fit in perfectly.

"It looks amazing! You really did a great job with it!" Charlotte said admiringly.

"Thank you! And I see he gave you your present; it looks perfect, as I knew it would." Valeria smiled at Tom.

"Yes, I love it. Thank you so much. I so much appreciate that you included Tom in getting me something like this. It's very special." Tom looked over at her, smiling. He saw something behind her that got his attention.

"I'm sure you'd like to spend some time with Valeria, and I've just seen someone I need to speak to. So, if you're fine with it, I'll leave you for a short time. Is that alright?" he asked.

"That's fine," Charlotte replied cheerfully.

Tom smiled at her again and, as he walked away, let his hand glide across her back. She found she couldn't exhale until the tip of his last finger had left her waist. Heading towards a black-haired boy he often spent time with, they heard him call out, "Lestrange."

Valeria took Charlotte by the arm Tom had just released. "Have you tried the chocoballs? They are fantastic! Come have one." She led her to a tiered display of red and green pastries, which they each took one of. A boy who looked to be in his third year was at the chocolate fountain. Unlike the muggle equivalent, it was unnecessary to hold anything under the fall of chocolate, as any treat put near it was properly doused by a jet of chocolate from the fountain. While the marshmallow he was holding was being covered with chocolate, he was looking in the other direction, eyes fixed on an older, blonde-haired girl engaged in conversation with a girl her age, who resembled him.

"Oi, Black. Your hand's all covered in chocolate," said Winky Crockett, the Slytherin Quidditch captain, who was a sixth year. A startled Black looked at his hand. The fountain had started coating his fingers in chocolate as well as the marshmallow. He pulled his hand away embarrassedly and walked off. Watching this episode, Charlotte just shook her head while Valeria laughed quietly, but not quietly enough not to attract the attention of Winky, who was helping himself to a peppermint flavored snowflake. She smiled at him and he approached the two of them.

"Valeria, isn't it?" he asked. "The one who came into the common room last week wearing that enchanted robe." He laughed.

"The coziest person sitting on the west side of the common room. That's me."

Winky laughed again. "And I take it you did this as well?" he asked, motioning to her snowing shawl.

"I did," Valeria smiled.

"The ice designs are magic too," added Charlotte. Winky looked at her like he had forgotten she was there.

"And you're Charlotte Soleil, Riddle's girlfriend."

"First part, yes. Second part, undetermined," Charlotte said with a smile. "The facts are that he asked me to this party, which I agreed to. And that's all."

"I see," said Winky, turning back to Valeria. "And what are the facts about your date to the party? Do you have one?"

At this point, Charlotte, seeing where this was likely going and wanting to put some distance between them, busied herself with selecting something to put in the chocolate fountain.

"No," said Valeria charmingly. "Avery asked me, but I turned him down. And you?"

Winky grew a bit sadder, although he mostly hid it. "I didn't come with anyone. I had planned on it, but… plans change." He and his girlfriend had broken up recently, after months (since Quidditch started) of fighting (because she thought he should spend more time with her and less on sport). Charlotte knew for a fact that Valeria was aware of this, but probably didn't want to look like the gossip that she was, and so pretended to have no idea.

"Oh," said Valeria. "Well, maybe your plans will change again." She smiled.

Charlotte had now moved on to pouring herself a glass of sparking apple cider, even farther down the table.

"Will you dance with me?" asked Winky.

"Yes. Yes, I would love to," answered Valeria, and then looked over his shoulder at Charlotte. "Catch up with you later," she said to her.

"Have fun." Charlotte smiled. She left the refreshment table and found a place to sit. She had just settled into an old, but elegant, armchair, and was sipping her drink, when some boy she recognized as a Gryffindor, but whom she didn't know, approached her.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked with that classic Gryffindor boldness, extending his arm to her.

"Yes," she replied, "with the person I came here with. Sorry."

"And who's that?" the young man inquired with a smile, seemingly not deterred by her initial rejection. She took another sip of her drink.

"You ask that like you don't believe I actually have a date," she said, now locating Tom in the room, not too far away. With another swallow, the apple cider was gone. She set the glass on the table beside her and stood. He straightened up as she did so, maintaining her eye contact until she had walked by him. Tom had been caught by Professor Slughorn, who was talking to him, telling some kind of story, when she came up beside him.

"Miss Soleil!" Slughorn greeted her.

"Hello, Professor," she answered merrily while she tucked her arm around Tom's, a tug at his arm indicating she wanted to dance. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but—". Slughorn didn't let her finish.

"Not to worry, Miss Soleil! Don't apologize!" He exclaimed jovially. To Tom he said, "We can have a chat anytime, but you two go enjoy yourselves."

"Happy Christmas, sir," Tom said as they started to move away.

"Yes, happy Christmas," Charlotte echoed. "And thank you for hosting us."

"It's my pleasure, of course," said Slughorn. "And a happy Christmas to you both!" He seemed more exuberant than usual, Charlotte noticed. Perhaps it was simply the joy of the festivities, or perhaps there was more in his glass than cocoa or apple cider.

Seeing Charlotte had directed them towards the area of the room designated for dancing, Tom turned to her and said in a lowered voice, "I have no idea how to dance."

"What's the point of having a date to the party if you can't even dance with her?" she teased. "It's alright. I think I've made my point." She looked over her shoulder about the room, as though admiring the decorations, until she spotted the Gryffindor, with some friends, looking in their direction. She smiled as she turned away. "Yes, while dancing would be nice, I've accomplished the real reason I brought you over here. Another boy asked me to dance, and I had to prove to him that he didn't stand a chance."

Tom smiled at her. "That sounds like you're thinking long-term. He doesn't stand a chance, as you say, _after_ tonight?"

"We'll have to see." Charlotte had been very careful not to make any assumptions about this, and to make certain no one else did either, just as she corrected Winky's Crockett's understanding of her relationship with Tom. But now it seemed he was showing interest in this being more than a one-off outing.

They had made their way over to a relatively calmer corner of the room. Three Ravenclaws sat discussing dragon species. A different Gryffindor boy stood a short ways off, snacking, while a Hufflepuff girl enthusiastically described to him how she had won at a game of gobstones. Charlotte stood facing Tom now. "I hope that you will attend future occasions such as this, with me, despite my inability to dance."

"I don't think there usually are any other _soirées_ like this throughout the year. But if there were, and you wanted my company again, I would say yes."

"It makes me very happy that you say that."

Charlotte now noticed that something was flattening the puffed part of her gathered sleeve down onto her shoulder. She turned her head to see large snowflakes collecting there, and then glanced upwards to find the source. It was falling from a sprig of mistletoe, as though a breeze were blowing it from the leaves. She looked back down quickly. Tom hadn't noticed it. He was smiling though, and she realized he was knocking the snow off her magically, the clumps levitating, travelling sideways then falling to the floor. Then she felt her dress shift too, and her hand automatically went to the upper edge of her garment to put it back in place.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that." Tom's voice and expression showed surprise.

"It's alright," Charlotte replied. He'd looked so shocked; she believe him. "No harm done." The snow had stopped falling now. Tom brushed away the rest of it without magic. Then he looked up. Seeing the mistletoe, he left his hand on her shoulder. Charlotte caught sight of Valeria across the room, her back to them.

"How very like Professor Slughorn," Tom commented.

"Hmm," was the only response Charlotte gave, still studying her friend. Tom looked to see what she was staring at.

"You think Valeria had something to do with it?" he asked, sounding amused.

Charlotte looked back at him. "Well, I wouldn't put it past her." She glanced at Tom's hand on her shoulder with a small smile, and then back at his eyes, now nearer to hers, and nearer, and nearer. She closed her eyes. And he kissed her. In seconds, his hands had moved, one around her waist, the other on her back instead of resting on her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around his torso. It was not a long kiss, as they were in a room full of people and, mistletoe or not, that made restraint very advisable. Still, once it was over they didn't separate entirely, their arms still around each other.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Let's talk about Winky Crockett and his ridiculous name. I did not come up with that. It's on the HP wiki as a name that the props department put on one of the plaques shown in the trophy room. Winky Crockett technically, in some form of canon, really was the Slytherin quidditch captain at that time-although whether Winky is a he or a she was not stated. I just chose he because it was convenient here. If you think Winky sounds more like a girl's name, (I mean I was thinking of Winky the House Elf, so yeah) just think about the fact that if parents are going to name their kid Winky, they clearly were not thinking rationally about the decision in the first place. (I hope no one reading this is named Winky and I've now offended them).

Sorry this is turning into a very long A/N, but I still have more to say. Regarding the mistletoe—yeah, I know, that's probably kind of a lame ploy to get characters to kiss, but, uh... well I actually don't have any excuse for that... Except that it happened in Order of the Phoenix, so that does legitimize it, I suppose.

Maybe this little description that I couldn't fit into the story will make up for it?

"The gingerbread house, being magic, remained structurally sound even as pieces were removed, which was done by little gingerbread men equipped with saws, who then carried the pieces to whoever was around the table waiting to try some."

I really like coming up with new magical things, like the chocolate fountain too! I would love to see that done with some cinema magic.

"Glacies appare" is just Latin for "ice appear". I made up the peppermint snowflakes, but chocoballs were actually mentioned, or shown, somewhere in the original. The "Black" mentioned is Orion Black, Sirius's father; he was looking at Walburga, his future wife, who was talking to his sister, Lucretia. The year that each is in is technically not known, but I based my decisions on the estimates made from known information. The other hidden reference is that the unused classroom on the forth floor is the same one where the Mirror of Erised is later kept.

And once again, next chapter is Tom's POV; we see a bit of what's really going on inside his mind and get to know his motives better. I didn't plan on writing any of this from his perspective, but I realized it was necessary if I wanted to really be clear on some things. It also turned out to be easier and more fun than I expected, so that was a pleasant surprise—I think...?

I would love some feedback on what you've liked so far, what doesn't make sense, whether this is meeting your expectations of the story—whatever you have to say, really, would be lovely to hear.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** This is on the short side—the shortest chapter so far, I think. But there's a lot in it, in my opinion; I hope you'll find it that way as well and enjoy it.

[Soon to be revised slightly]

* * *

Over the break, the castle became more to Tom's liking, quieter and less overrun by people he had to speak politely to—people who didn't deserve his respect, but to whom he was obligated to show common courtesy for the sake of appearing like the rest of them; he was not like the rest of them, and that was the last thing he wanted to be. All his life he had known there was something special about him, and the day Dumbledore came and told him he was a wizard didn't change that. He was still special among this more elite portion of humanity. And now he knew why.

 _The Heir of Slytherin._ He had proven it, found it in books; his grandfather's name, Marvolo, was shared by a member of the Gaunt family, descendants of Salazar Slytherin. He had always been able to talk to snakes, and, as Dumbledore had told him when he confessed this—he grimaced at this recollection, wishing he had not shared such a secret with this man, who had never been as easily fooled by his politeness and charm—the ability was unusual, but not unheard of. Naturally, Slytherin himself being a parselmouth, as Tom had learned it was called, those other cases were his progeny. The thought filled Tom with a sense of more importance than he had ever known. Legend said Slytherin, before his untimely departure, had created a place somewhere in the school, in which he may have even taught the dark arts to select, worthy students in his house, and later hidden a monster within. The other founders may have rejected his philosophies, showing their weakness, their inferiority to Slytherin, and ultimately forced him to leave the school, but he did not leave Hogwarts without a piece of his legacy. The Chamber of Secrets. Tom knew he would find it, find the monster inside it, and uncover what Slytherin had left behind to be carried out by his heir.

He was on his way downstairs, having told Charlotte he would see her off as she left to return to her home for the holiday. He would be pleased to see her gone; she occupied his time when he could be doing more productive things. Granted, she was a worthwhile project—his decision to pursue her coming from a myriad of ways she might prove useful to him. He reminded himself of this potential as he prepared himself to make the display of affection that would be required for her send off.

To his mind, love was a force that worked against him, and everyone else—only most everyone else gave in and let themselves be distracted. He alone saw what folly that emotion was, how it made you weak, held you back from greatness. Some would call his view selfish. Aside from the negative connotation, they were right. He was selfish, and love could have no place in a selfish soul. He had categorized love as a weakness at a young age. From then on, he had never had so much as a friend to think about. That was easy; there was nothing to gain from them—nothing involving emotional attachment. That was before the thought of being alone with _a girl_ made him imagine all kinds of things. Now, with those thoughts in his mind, and a way to act on them, the line between loving and not loving might become blurred. It was a risk—but not one he felt truly threatened by.

Charlotte was on the steps that led out to the courtyard when he saw her. She stood apart from the other students, very still, except for her hair caught in the breeze; it seemed she was thinking very deeply about something. Tom wanted to know what it was. One day he would master legilimency, that was another ambition of his, but for now it was difficult, even with his great skill in magic. For now, Charlotte would serve as the best to practice on, an easy target. It was said that lovers knew each other's thoughts better than most, so who would be surprised if his ability to know what she was thinking closely resembled mind reading? He did have some concern that she would come to know too much about him, about his plans. But while she was an excellent student, certainly a bright witch, she could not be anywhere near as remarkable as him, and, furthermore, he would not hesitate to use his power to suppress any unwanted recollections she might obtain during their time together.

"I hope you have a good holiday," Tom said quietly, coming to stand beside Charlotte.

"Thank you." She looked at him and smiled. "And I hope you enjoy yours." He would indeed. Careful not to reveal the smirk beneath his smile, he grinned, although it felt unnatural. "I'm happy to stay at Hogwarts."

"I can tell. Valeria warned me to be considerate of how you might feel, staying here while so many of us leave and spend time with our families, but I told her just that—you're more than content to remain." It was more difficult to maintain a smile as he listened to Charlotte make inferred statements about his feelings, which he resented her having any extensive knowledge of. He dropped the pleasant expression altogether and, not wanting Charlotte to notice, leaned over to kiss her cheek. Then, turning her face towards his, he kissed her again on the lips. With closed eyes, she could see nothing of his unmasked face. It surprised him a little that he found this easier than tricking her with smiles. Kisses were, after all, a sign of affection, of love, which he did not feel towards her, nor anyone else. But a case like his was not uncommon, he supposed; kisses were not always shared out of love. Sometimes it was necessary in the pursuit of other things. However, for most people this alternate objective was sex, which was not his ultimate goal in this. And yet, last night at the Christmas party, when he had been dusting the snow off her shoulder and accidentally made her sleeve slip—clearly in that moment he had been thinking of something else, creating a distraction to his magic. He didn't like the thought that he was already being weakened by his relationship with Charlotte.

Like their previous kiss, this one was brief due to the public setting they were in. Unlike their previous kiss, this one was interrupted. It was Valeria.

"Hate to cut in, but I've just seen Professor Merrythought heading this way, and I figured, better me than her." Charlotte gave a sort of embarrassed laugh as she stepped back from Tom. Valeria pivoted in place gracefully and walked away from them. She stopped a short distance off, probably to remain within earshot, Tom thought disdainfully. He could have done without an over-interested friend hovering around his relationship. Although, he had to admit, without Valeria's encouraging influence on her friend, it was less likely that he would have been able to make Charlotte his girlfriend at all. Which reminded him...

"I heard you were telling people you didn't consider yourself my girlfriend," he said.

She didn't answer at first. "I didn't want to jump to conclusions," she eventually replied.

"And what do you think now?"

"I think there's something you want to ask me." She smiled.

No. Not really. He let out a resigned sigh, but laughed to make it seem like he was making a joke. "I want you to be my girlfriend, Charlotte. Will you say you will be?" Her face broke into a grin as she nodded.

Gradually, she was becoming enamored with him.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Here's hoping Riddle doesn't sound too cliché. It's challenging to write for a character who doesn't feel love, and trying to explain the rationale they have for that. I don't want him to sound like the typical villain-who-thinks-love-and-friendship-makes-you-weak (because I feel like that's a thing? Although I can't think of any examples right now).

Whatever musings and questions you have about Tom's inner thoughts, motivations, etc., drop them in a review and I'll see if I can address them in future chapters. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** Originally I had this chapter combined with the next chapter, but it was over 4000 words, and I wasn't sure if that was too long. (I know I'm less likely to read something if the length seems overwhelming, and I certainly want people to read this). Feel free to share any thoughts regarding the length of chapters.

* * *

Rumors about Grindelwald flooded the halls as the students returned to their studies at Hogwarts. Nineteen forty-three had brought with it proclamations from the dark wizard himself, saying this new year would usher in a time of triumph for his cause; he felt they were not far off from making some great achievements. Of course, this was propaganda, but one could not help feeling uneasiness at Grindelwald's confidence.

In Defense Against the Dark Arts, however, their class approached a different matter, a different enemy. It was brought up by one of the Gryffindors they had class with.

"Professor? May I ask something a bit off topic?"

"I suppose, Mr. Sprott. What is your question?" answered Professor Merrythought.

"I wondered if you, or the wizarding world in general, knew how to use magic to stop a bomb, you know, like the muggles make." Professor Merrythought looked surprised, as did most of the others in the room—a few of Sprott's friends, less so, as they had already heard the story he was about to recount. "You see, while I was home, the Germans bombed a city not far from where I live. The muggles have that siren warning—we heard it, and I've never seen my parents cast shield charms as quickly as they did then. I know some people in that town, friends I had when I went to school before coming here. I asked if we could do anything to help. They said no, not only is it against the law, but we don't know how. I don't like feeling helpless. I want to take action whenever I can. That's why I thought I'd ask." The room remained silent for several moments before Professor Merrythought replied.

"Mr. Sprott, your concern for your friends is admirable, and I wish I could tell you that, in the event of another attack like that, you could be of some help, but the truth is," a sort of pained look came over her face, one that was tinged with fear, "those weapons are more powerful than magic." Whispers erupted in the room, the general consensus of the hushed voices being "That can't be". Sprott leaned back in his seat gloomily.

Charlotte felt the same fear as her classmates and Professor Merrythought, but less of the disbelief. In the past, she had already considered this. The Gryffindor boy's story made her skin turn to gooseflesh; it was a familiar scenario he described. It brought back thoughts she had worked hard to suppress.

Then Tom spoke up. "Professor, couldn't one slow the descent of the bomb, preventing it from exploding until the blast could be contained? That's possible with magic isn't it?"

His confidence in magic made Charlotte smile and strengthened her again against fearing muggles. Professor Merrythought smiled at him too. "Yes, Mr. Riddle, that is technically possible," she said. However, getting that close to one of these muggle explosives is highly inadvisable. It could mean death, instantly. And magic certainly cannot reverse death; that is another power greater than it."

Tom pursed his lips slightly. Looking at him, Charlotte noticed how it made his cheekbones more defined in an attractive way. She wished she wasn't so captivated by him and looked away, but not for long. She hadn't seen him in just over two weeks, so really it was that she was making up for lost time, no?

Sprott was now looking interested again. "So it's dangerous, but it's possible?" he asked eagerly.

"Well, yes," answered Professor Merrythought. "But, Mr. Sprott, what your parents told you, about that being illegal, is true, and you must remember that. No matter what I might think, as your teacher, I cannot advise you to break the law, which in this case concerns the Statute of Secrecy. And if you have any questions about that, I'm sure you can put your inquiry to Professor Binns in History of Magic. Here and now, you must learn about stunning, so…" And from there the class was a normal one.

* * *

Tom was seated with his so-called friends at dinner time, when Charlotte came and sat across from him, next to Lestrange, who, smirking, nudged Avery. Tom resented their enjoyment of teasing him; it was normal, but his relationship with her was not, and furthermore, he didn't like being reminded of his _girlfriend_ , at least not by them, when it wasn't necessary to think about.

"Don't worry, I don't plan on staying here; I have no interest in your boys' talk," she said to the group. It was likely that another man, or a very different Tom Riddle who craved her company, would have told her to stay, but he was not such a one. He did not want her there. Even though the way her long hair fell around her bosom was attractive to look at—a thought that he furiously tried to subdue. She continued, speaking to only him now, "I just wanted to see if you could come see me in the common room later. I have something for you. So don't hide out in the library all evening," she said laughingly, as she stood to leave them.

...

He found her sitting in the common room on a sofa, without Valeria, he was pleased to see, and with a small gift-wrapped object next to her. Hopefully whatever it was would be of some use to him so he wouldn't be forced to keep it in his possession only for the sentimental value that one would expect it to have, and which he would need to give the appearance of attributing to it. Charlotte smiled as he sat down beside her. She handed him the gift.

"Here you are. Happy birthday," she said brightly and bit nervously. He wasn't entirely sure how she knew when his birthday was; it wasn't something he had ever made any fuss about. Although the following year, his seventeenth birthday, he did regard with importance, as that day would make him fully a wizard, a wizard of age, who didn't have to worry about the trace—and he would be able to Apparate, which was an exciting prospect.

"Thank you, Charlotte," he said, taking the package. "Although I told you, you didn't need to get me anything."

"You didn't have to get me anything either," she answered. He decided he might as well get it over with—the opening of the gift, _and_ what he had resolved to do after. First slitting the paper down the center with magic, he pulled the wrapping aside to reveal a book decorated with opulent embellishments. "It's about Hogwarts, the four founders mostly." He opened the book and flipped through several pages, feeling mixed emotions at the fact that he was glad to have it, but how he had her to thank for it. "I wasn't sure if the library here had it,—they probably do, so maybe you've read it already—but I got it in Paris, so maybe not?"

"You went to _Paris_ to get this?" That was dangerous. So, she felt that strongly about him, maybe even already loving him? This was good.

"Yes." She looked at him with eyes that definitely supported his supposition. "There's a magnificent wizarding library there; I thought they would be most likely to have something you hadn't read."

"Library?" he said inquisitively. How had she acquired it? Stolen it? Convinced them to give it to her permanently? This was a potentially interesting, and maybe exploitable, side of her character.

"Oh," she said with embarrassment. "Bookstore. I meant bookstore." He was disappointed. " _Bibliothèque_ means library; _librairie_ is bookstore. In English I sometimes get confused about them. But," she continued eagerly, trying to dismiss her mistake, "I had my mother show me how to personalize it, so that even if it's in the Hogwarts' library, your own copy will be nicer. It's also enchanted so that if a muggle looks at it the title is missing and the pages are blank; I thought that would be helpful." It was a wise precaution, but not one that was necessary. No one at the orphanage would dare go through his things; they would hardly go near him. "I know it would be better if you could read it in front of muggles as well, but I wanted to do the magic myself, and that's a bit more difficult."

He was certain he could have done it, but instead he said, "You would have needed a muggle book; I don't expect you have any of those."

"We have books that the muggles also know, but they think the fantastic elements in them are imagined. In particular, my father is rather fond of the Ancient Greeks," she laughed. "Although I don't know that any of our books of that category are in English."

"It's fine the way it is," he said with a smile, setting the book aside and moving closer to her. "I really do like it, very much."

"I'm so glad," Charlotte beamed.

"I love it," he said meaningfully as he leaned towards her. "And..." He lifted his hand and used two fingers to gesture for her to lean towards him too. As she did this, he brushed his fingers over her hair and settled his palm against her neck on the opposite side of her face to where he whispered to her. "I love _you_."

He dropped his hand and moved so he could see her. She glanced up at his face and then quickly down again.

"Pass me the book," she said. He got it for her slowly, trying to figure out what she was doing. Taking it from him, she opened it, but she didn't look at the page she was turning to; she was looking at him. She pointed to something and said, "I thought this was very interesting." At the same time, she raised the book to about eye level for both of them. He was caught completely off-guard when she kissed him. After which she softly said, "I love you too." He relaxed. With a slight detour, this had gone as he had planned.

Taking hold of the book and lowering it, he pretended to pretend that he was calmly acting as if nothing important had happened behind the book. "Yes, I'll enjoy reading this," he said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Charlotte wasn't looking at him and that was fine.

"Hiding behind the book wasn't necessary though. That is, I doubt it disguised much." Although he wished that it could have. While it was only in his view that being romantic, with Charlotte or anyone, was undesirable for his reputation, he still didn't like the idea that people would think of him that way. That wasn't who he was. Of course, when it came to the way the general population of Hogwarts viewed him, most aspects of his personality were false. Still, one had to draw the line somewhere.

"Thanks for playing along anyway." She put the book into his hands and stood up. "Good night." She unabashedly kissed his cheek and he wished he hadn't made it seem like he was discouraging discretion, encouraging her to showcase their relationship to the entire common room. And he was obligated to return her "good night" no matter how he felt. After that, he opened the book and tried to read, if only to avoid the looks of anyone who might have seen.

* * *

Valeria was waiting eagerly for the details when Charlotte entered the dormitory. "Well? Did he like the book?" Then she noticed the odd look on her friend's face. "Are you alright? You didn't have a row or something did you? Did you break up?" she asked, becoming more concerned with each question.

"No, no, quite the opposite…" Charlotte whispered. "He—he said _I love you_."

Valeria became wide-eyed. "Oh my. That's… No wonder you're in such a state."

"I think I'm a bit in shock."

"So, what happened after he said it?"

"I—" she blushed as she went on, "suddenly felt the urge to kiss him, then I told him I loved him too. We said a few other things, then I said good night and came here. But the thing is, I don't know if I love him. To be honest, I don't know if I believe that he _loves_ me. How well does he know me really?" The real concern she had underlying this was that, if she did love him, it would be very problematic given her family's expectations for her. She didn't feel she ought to bring this up to Valeria, however, with its implications of pureblood superiority. "Do you think I should talk to him about it?"

"If you feel like that's the best thing to do…" Valeria answered vaguely, which Charlotte found completely unhelpful.

"Of course I'd do it if it seemed like the best thing to do! But I don't know!" she snapped. "Sorry" followed immediately after. Valeria came and sat beside her.

"I feel partly responsible. Maybe you wouldn't have rushed into things if I hadn't been so… enthusiastic." She spoke seriously, trying to be of some comfort.

"You didn't force me into anything, and it's not like I needed you to talk me into dating him."

"And what about him? Does he make you feel… pressured?"

"No, not at all." Then, thinking about the _I love you_ again, Charlotte continued, "And it's not his fault if that's the way he feels—now, rather than later. Or maybe he's as conflicted about all this as I am."

"Perhaps you _should_ talk it over with him."

"I don't know… if I could."

"Well I can't say that's a very good sign."

"No, I mean, it's my issue to sort out. I just don't know how I feel about him. He hasn't done anything wrong, so…" She trailed off. Then started up again in an agitated, rushed manner, "You know this is probably because I was _so_ certain I wasn't interested in him, and now I'm just annoyed I was mistaken."

"As mistakes go, this one's not too bad," Valeria laughed. Charlotte gave a small smile. All she wanted was for the doubt to go away, so that she could enjoy what seemed to be a most wonderful, ideal relationship.

* * *

The weeks that followed were mainly uneventful. The _Daily Prophet_ reported minor Grindelwald related attacks across continental Europe, which was concerning, but something they had all gotten used to hearing about. For them, there was very little threat. Grindelwald had not yet brought his crusade to Britain, and, distanced from the impact of his actions, they were—not unsympathetic to the plight of the rest of their kind on the mainland—simply not as aware of the problem. Charlotte, and those who, like her, knew a great many people in countries where Grindelwald was actively "reforming" as he called it—a term that colored his deeds with the rosy tint of righteousness—felt differently. Charlotte had experienced it herself, finding out a friend's family member had been murdered, fearing for her father in his position of power, being in a city the day before it was attacked and thinking how lucky she was to be alive… Sometimes these memories would creep back into her consciousness, and she would feel like breaking down in tears.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** The law forbidding wizards from interfering in the war was actually put in place for WWI, but I forgot that when I wrote this. There's nothing said for certain about whether the same law was present during the second war, but I'm going with the idea that it was, because that's more dramatic.

I feel like the ending of this chapter is not the best, but as I said before, it was originally combined with the next one.

Another thing, I'm kind of at a loss as to understanding how Riddle found the Chamber of Secrets, given that the entrance is in a _girls_ ' bathroom. I considered maybe he spoke to the basilisk and it told him how to get in, but then why would it have taken him five years to figure it out, if the snake was the one to start things? Then I thought maybe someone mentioned in passing the snakes on the sink, as shown in the movie. Turns out, in the book, the snake (there's only one) is far more subtle, so that seemed less likely. However, I did not realize this issue until after I had written this little scene to show how he figured it out.

"Deleted Scene"

Valeria came bouncing up to them, something to say ready to burst forth from her.  
"I was just coming out of _our favorite bathroom_ , on the first floor—I'll explain," she added fluidly, with a glance at Tom's confused look. "And I saw my _former favorite_ quidditch captain _snogging_ a certain—"  
"Val, do you need to tell me this now?" Charlotte interrupted, tilting her head jerkily towards Tom, who was looking on with what she perceived to be discomfort, a bit of disgust, and the subtlest hint of amusement if one looked especially closely.  
"Oh, well.. No. No, I suppose not," Valeria said awkwardly. "But let me clarify about the bathroom thing, because out of context that makes me sound like a complete nutter—I mean who has a favorite bathroom, right?" She turned to Tom. "There are snakes on the sink handles," she said simply. "So we joke that, as Slytherins, it's our favorite."  
"Really it's just like all the others, and, actually, it's also the favorite moping spot of that Ravenclaw girl who can't seem to stop crying."  
"To be fair to her, she gets made fun of a lot, I think," said Valeria.  
"Well the constant crying is not helping put an end to that," Charlotte answered.  
"No, it most definitely is not," Valeria agreed with a frown. "I wonder if I could enchant some new glasses for her and increase her popularity... Probably isn't worth the trouble though." She walked away from them pondering this. Turning back briefly, she called out, "See you later!" and carried on her way.


	7. Chapter 7

In early February, they had another visit to Hogsmeade. This time, Charlotte was prepared, with all her assignments already completed for the weekend.

"Is Riddle going?" Valeria asked her on the morning of.

"I don't know. Probably not. I don't think he cares for it."

"I know the two of you, being such an _intellectual_ pair, spend a lot of time talking; didn't he mention it?"

"No, he didn't. And I would appreciate it if you didn't mock us."

"I wasn't," Valeria answered defiantly. "Only I've noticed that you aren't as physical with each other as one might expect. So I call you intellectual. It's not a bad thing." Charlotte made no reply. "Unless," Valeria started thoughtfully, "you want that to change, and that's why you became so agitated when I brought it up."

"Just because you don't see us kiss doesn't mean it never happens."

"Oh? Well, I don't need to know. I'm happy if you're happy," Valeria said, prancing towards the door out of their dormitory.

"Where are you off to? Aren't you going to wait for me?" Charlotte asked.

"Well that's why I was hoping you were going with Riddle, see. I've got a date. An appointment, I should say. But it could turn into a date. I'm meeting with our quidditch captain to discuss some uniform modifications for the team." She smiled brightly.

"That's great!" Charlotte replied sincerely, although she did wonder why Valeria had not told her about this.

"Yes, I'd gotten the feeling that he'd been wanting to speak with me, but it was only yesterday when he finally asked," she said inadvertently giving Charlotte an answer. "Do you think I'm intimidating?" she asked suddenly, barely pausing after her previous sentence.

"No, not really. That is, you're unique, and maybe some find that intimidating, but I don't think you should change." Charlotte smiled and Valeria flashed a sparkly grin back at her before darting out the door.

When Charlotte made her way out to the common room, she found Tom there. He greeted her with an embrace. "Are you going to Hogsmeade?" he asked, still holding her in his arms.

"Yes. By any chance are you?" she asked, hoping the answer was yes.

"I've decided I will. I want to spend time with you."

"That's good. I want to spend time with you, too." She smiled at him.

...

They went to Honeydukes first. Charlotte made her way through the crowd towards the glass counter that was filled with chocolates.

"What can I get for you?" asked the shop owner, a man not quite middle-aged with light colored hair and a cheerful disposition.

"I'm not sure yet, but my first question is do you still do gift parcels by delivery?"

"I'm afraid we don't at the moment, miss. However, we can gift wrap any purchases you make, then you can take things over to the Hogsmeade Post Office yourself."

"Ah, well, that makes sense," Charlotte answered. "Although I was intending to send some chocolate cauldrons to my father—they're one of his favorites—but with the firewhisky in them…"

"I see, that way you would be within the law and able to get your father the gift."

" _Exactement_." She laughed, "I mean exactly."

"Ahh," the man said, drawing the word out in understanding. "So you must be the French girl at Hogwarts, meaning your father is _Monsieur Soleil_ , of the International Confederation of Wizards?"

Charlotte laughed cheerfully to disguise her cringe at his terrible pronunciation of _monsieur_. "Yes."

"Well," he said slowly, "I think we can make an exception just this once. But don't spread it around."

"Of course not." Charlotte smiled. " _Merci_."

"I'll just go wrap that up for you while you make up your mind about what else you want," the owner said, grabbing a box of chocolate cauldrons from a shelf behind him, and walking away. Charlotte nodded and immediately became engrossed in deciding what chocolate to get.

"I think I'll just go have a look around the rest of the shop," said Tom. Charlotte didn't hear him. In her defense, it was noisy in the shop and Tom generally spoke quietly. Not getting any response from her, he stepped closer and put his hand on her shoulder, leaning down towards her. She turned. "I'm going to look around while you take your time here," he repeated.

"Right." She smiled at him. Already so close, he quickly kissed her cheek before letting go of her and moving off into the crowd of other students. Charlotte looked back at the counter of chocolates, blinking quickly. "Now I've completely forgotten what I was going to get," she muttered, but couldn't hold back a smile as she touched her cheek where his lips had been.

* * *

Tom stepped towards another counter in the shop, this one with the owner's wife behind it. "Excuse me," he said. She looked up from the squares of treacle fudge she was weighing and smiled when she saw him. "I wonder if you can help me find something." He smiled back at her charmingly.

"I'm sure I can. What's your sweet tooth craving?"

"Actually it's not for me; I'm getting something for my girlfriend."

"Oh, how nice!" Mrs. Flume said, her manner towards him not changing. She wasn't flirty, but certainly found him attractive. This put him at ease; if she had become cold towards him after finding out he was already with someone, it would have made using his charm on her far too uncomfortable, especially with so many people around who might notice how they were behaving.

"She likes coconut," he said. In truth he had no idea if Charlotte liked coconut, but it didn't matter. Buying something for her was just a pretense.

"Well the exploding bonbons have coconut in them. But if you think she'd prefer something less extreme, then maybe the Pink Coconut Ice? And seeing as it's pink it would be excellent for Valentine's Day."

He smiled. "That's when I plan on giving it. You're a very good salesperson, very helpful. I'll take the coconut ice, then."

She beamed at his praise and raised her wand to summon a package of Pink Coconut Ice. She set it on the counter and pushed it towards him, but, as she did, she leaned it too and said, "You know I've just remembered, we're having a sale today for Hogwarts prefects." She pointed at his silver badge. "But it ends, uh, right now actually, so don't bother telling anyone else." He was quite certain there was no such sale. "So if there's something else you'd like, just say the word and it's yours free of charge."

This was very convenient. The interaction was going even better than he had anticipated. "Well…there _is_ something, but… I don't know…"

"Anything you want," she reassured him gaily.

After further brief hesitation, he said, "Chocolate cauldrons." The idea had come to him when he heard Charlotte mention them. Firewhisky made one more daring and, although he did not need a boost in confidence for what he intended, it would help the situation if anything went wrong.

"Chocolate cauldrons, hmm?" She folded her arms, but was smiling. "Well I did say anything," she sighed. "But I really shouldn't."

"I understand," he said quickly. "I thought it couldn't do much harm to ask." He could see she was still considering it. And he knew just what to say to get what he wanted. "I've never tried one before, but I've heard others, whose parents don't mind the rules, talk about tasting them—"

"Well it's a little different when a parent decides they'll let their child have some firewhisky," she interjected.

"Of course," he said agreeably. "And the muggle-born children would, like me, not have ever tried it, having non-magical parents." He paused. Then added very quietly, seemingly to himself, but loud enough for her to hear, "Parents, something else I've never experienced having."

She let out a sympathetic little "Oh". He hated her pity, regretted this line of persuasion—the firewhisky was not even that essential—and resolved never to use his orphan status in this way again. But it got him the chocolate cauldrons. She wrapped the box up in gift paper, so no one would see what it was, and did the same for the coconut ice, since he had told her that was a gift.

He met Charlotte outside the shop and they decided to go to the Three Broomsticks. He hoped that maybe there he would have the chance to show her the chocolates and have some firewhisky. Inside the Three Broomsticks, Charlotte turned to him and said, "How about you grab us a table and I'll go get some butterbeer?"

"Sure," he answered. He looked around and, seeing the round table with the bench seat was unoccupied, went to sit down. Pulling out his wand, he unwrapped the chocolate cauldrons and placed them next to him, out of sight, on the bench. Charlotte gave him a somewhat confused look when she saw where he was sitting.

"Rather a lot of space for two," she said, coming up to the table, a butterbeer in each hand. She sat down beside him.

"No one was sitting here, so I don't see a problem with it. Besides, if I'm not mistaken, it's not uncommon for couples to sit here, so they can be close to each other." He reached for her hand, but, before taking it, changed his mind. Instead he put his arm around her waist and turned her towards him slightly. "And I have something I don't want anyone else to see." He leaned back to reveal the box of chocolate cauldrons, picking them up with his free hand.

"Did you get those just now? How?" Charlotte asked.

He gave a shrug. "I talked to Mrs. Flume."

"Lots of people talk to Mrs. Flume and don't come out of it with chocolate cauldrons. She fancies you. I saw. She's about twice your age, married, and she fancies you," Charlotte said with look of confusion tinged with disgust.

"Believe me, I'm just as—no, _more_ disgusted than you are at that thought," he answered with honesty. Then, setting the box of chocolates in his lap, he held her waist with both hands, leaned towards her and said, "Rest assured, there's no reason for you to feel even the tiniest bit of envy for that woman." He pressed his lips to her forehead, which felt like a strange thing to do, but apparently showed affection. He let go of her waist and picked up the chocolates again. "Do you want one?"

Charlotte, sipping her butterbeer, looked at the cauldrons indecisively. "I don't really care for them, but maybe my tastes have changed…" While she pondered her decision, he took one out and, when no one was looking in their direction, downed the contents in one gulp. He could tell why "fire" was part of the name. It burned his throat, but left him with the feeling of confidence he had expected.

"Well?" questioned Charlotte amusedly.

"I don't know if I like it."

"Have some butterbeer." He did, and that helped, although it made the sweet beverage taste odd.

"Are you going to eat the chocolate?" asked Charlotte.

"Do you want it? Here." She took it and poured some butterbeer into it.

"I wish they made them like this," she said, raising it to her lips.

"I'm sure they must somewhere," he replied, taking another from the box. He began drinking this one more slowly, but, realizing he didn't want to prolong the burning sensation, ended up hurriedly tipping the rest into his mouth. The volume of firewhisky from two chocolate cauldrons now blazing through him, he felt Charlotte might overlook what he was about to say, if it turned out she strongly objected to it. Refilling the cauldron with butterbeer, he calmly said, "Valentine's Day is coming up."

"So it is," answered Charlotte, smiling. "Have you made any plans?"

He looked sideways at her, smiling too. "I may have come up with some arrangements for a special someone. Although it might involve breaking some rules," he replied, enjoying a double-meaning that only he understood. "I think I'll be going to sleep early, so that no one will think anything of it if they find my bed empty in the morning; they'll assume I got up early." Charlotte turned her face away from him, probably trying to hide the color that rushed into her cheeks as she perceived his meaning.

"And where in the castle can one be so as to stay out all night and not be caught?" she inquired, following his lead. So far the firewhisky seemed to have been an unnecessary precaution.

"Hogwarts is full of secrets," he answered. "Believe it or not there's a room well-suited for just such a purpose." He leaned very close to her, watching her reaction. "We can go there, if you want, on that night." She was studying his face too, but a smile was playing at her lips and he was quite sure he saw excitement in her eyes.

"Would you be saying this if you hadn't just had all that firewhisky?"

"Probably not." In fact that was false; he had planned to say these exact words, and the firewhisky had only come along as a convenient scapegoat on which to pin the blame for his forwardness. He continued, "But that doesn't mean I wouldn't have wanted to."

She leaned back against the bench; he kept his eyes on her face, trying to read her response there. He wanted to know for certain, but he added the final piece of his speech. "Of course, there's no reason for you to decide now. Think it over. There's a whole week before then. The last thing I want is for you to feel pressured; only say yes if you're entirely comfortable with it." The irony of this was that it was intended to pressure her into agreement, although there was truth in that he didn't want her to _feel_ pressured.

She nodded, then slowly said, "I'll think about it." There it was—the illusion of a choice. She would think about it, and he would make sure her final answer was yes; he fully intended to sleep with her the night of Valentine's Day.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Chocolate cauldrons, treacle fudge, exploding bonbons, and Pink Coconut Ice are all "real" candies sold at Honeydukes. Mr. and Mrs. Flume are the owners in Harry's time, but going by their age then, and how long wizards seem to live, I decided it was likely they were there fifty years previously too.

If you're thinking this whole Valentine's Day scheme seems possibly out of character for Tom, I assure you, there's a reason for it (see next chapter). That said, if you have any questions about anything that doesn't make sense to you, ask away; it'll help me improve the story, too.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** [This chapter is in desperate need of some editing, but I haven't gotten to it yet...]

Upfront warning—this chapter gets more suggestive than the rest so far. Not to an M rating, but, as the last line of chapter seven said "...he fully intended to sleep with her the night of Valentine's Day.", there is obviously going to be some (at least marginally) more mature content. You may read it and think any kind of warning was unnecessary, but I don't know what people expect, so.

* * *

On Valentine's Day, the Hogwarts staff, usually strict in this regard, seemed to turn a blind eye to the romantic goings-on around them (at least to some extent—those of the nature that Charlotte and Tom had the intention of carrying out were likely not so permissible regardless of the day, but of course if things went according to plan, no one would ever know). It was a Sunday, so there weren't even any classes to otherwise engage the students who were amorously inclined; thus entering an "empty" classroom became twice as likely, if not more, to lead to embarrassment on somebody's part.

At breakfast she sat across from Tom. "I have something to take care of after this, but will you wait for me by the lake?" he asked while buttering some toast. Charlotte, smiling, nodded. Then she nearly knocked over her pumpkin juice as she reached distractedly for a hard-boiled egg. Nerves were getting to her. In fact she did knock the goblet over, but a spill was prevented by Tom's quick reflexes and non-verbal magic; this did not help her feel less anxious about the day.

...

She stood there, staring out over the lake, when, unexpectedly from behind, arms wrapped around her waist and lips kissed her cheek. Immediately knowing that it was Tom, she twisted around in his embrace to face him, then putting her arms around his neck, kissed him. He angled them towards a tree that was behind her and pressed forward until she was tightly between himself and tree trunk. He broke away from her and looked in her eyes intently. She hoped he could find whatever he was looking for in them, because she was quite sure she had lost the ability to verbally communicate. Shaking her head minutely back and forth, a moment passed as she searched for the words, finally managing to say, "Don't stop." He acquiesced with a smile.

Sudden shouts from what seemed like a short distance away interrupted. Charlotte turned her head rapidly in the direction of the castle, where the sound had originated. Tom followed suit slowly, raising his head from the space by her neck. All they could see was a group of boys up on the hill. "It doesn't concern us," he said, turning her face towards him again, his palm around her chin, long fingers framing her face. She drew her hand down his chest, watching her movement rather than looking directly at him. "What are you thinking?" he asked softly.

"I'm thinking…" She looked up, moved towards him slightly, leaving his hand midair where her face had been cradled in it. "Yes."

"Yes?" he repeated in a questioning tone, but, she imagined, knowing what she meant.

She nodded. He had told her to be absolutely certain; she felt that she was. She knew he wanted to be with her, and she wanted to be with him. What reason did she have to say no?

With a mischievous smile, Tom said, "I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to tonight."

* * *

Tom lay awake beside a sleeping Charlotte, who was lying on her side facing away from him. His confidence in his ability to seduce her had not been a misjudgment. With his alibi now in place—the lie others would believe was the one that they most suspected—he had greater matters to attend to. But he couldn't stop thinking about… He took a deep breath, trying to clear his head. That was a mistake. It only brought to mind what he was trying to push away; Charlotte pressed against him, his inhalation that filled his lungs with the scent of her, his lips on her skin.

He ran both hands through his hair. That too was a mistake. Her finger's had done the same thing while he had concentrated on moving the bed mentally. It surprised him a little that he had been able to do this,—kissing Charlotte at the same time so passionately having been more engaging than he had anticipated—but he had managed to turn the entire bedframe, mattress, and all, onto its side so that when he and Charlotte were in the right spot he could put it back in place on the floor with them on it. Here was another way in which wizards were superior to muggles. Tom smirked at this thought.

He closed his eyes. His third mistake in a row. In his mind's eye he saw them again. His eyelids flew open as he clenched his fists in frustration. Now he made another mistake, this time knowing it was one before acting; he looked at Charlotte. Instantly he felt the return of that longing, brought on by his gaze travelling along the slopes of her body—or how he pictured them anyway; the blanket was so thick, not much of her figure was discernable underneath it.

"What the hell," he muttered, giving in. He turned over to face her, moving so he was lying right against her back, and placed one hand lightly on her hip. He wanted to touch her more, but he feared waking her. There was still the rest of his plan for the night, the more important part, to carry out. He twisted away from her, onto is back again—a bit too forcefully it seemed, as she stirred slightly. Her voice met his ears and his great displeasure at having complicated matters.

"Are you alright?" she asked in a half-asleep voice, turning over.

"Fine," he replied. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"It's alright," she answered, propping herself up on her elbow next to him. "But I'm wondering now… truly nothing's bothering you? Do you regret tonight?" she asked slowly.

He wasn't sure. Knowing he was cloaked by the darkness and she couldn't see him clearly, he gritted his teeth in irritation. But he answered positively. "No, I don't regret it," he said as quickly as he could, concluding it was the answer that was best for her to receive. "Do you?"

He could just make out the shape of her head moving from side to side. In an effort to reassure her, or distract her,—whatever worked—he reached out to take her hand. Twining his fingers around hers, he pulled her forward, closer to him, like a puppeteer made his marionettes move to his wishes. "You're cold," he said, feeling goose bumps on her skin when it touched him. "There's a nightdress—over there," he pointed to a partial mannequin, like a dress form. With the flick of his fingers, it came drifting towards the bed.

Charlotte, now sitting upright, took the nightgown from over his arm where it had draped itself. "What a remarkable room," she said musingly as she slipped the dress over her shoulders. Then she looked curiously at him and asked, "Am I the first girl you've brought here?" It was half said as a joke, he could tell.

"This room… I didn't put these things here; they just…appear." He spoke carefully, not wanting to reveal too much; it was his secret and if it had not been such a perfect location for them to meet he would not have shared it with her at all. "But yes, you are the only one," he answered seriously. "The first," he said with meaning, implying she was the first he had ever done such things with.

"Really? You don't have some summer flame back at the orphanage?" she said teasingly.

"Don't mention that place." He tensed at the thought of it, and it made him angry that she would bring it up; although he was glad she hadn't made any more inquiries about the room. And to make certain she did not, he once again thought it best to preoccupy her. "Are you still cold?" he asked. Not waiting for a reply, he leaned toward her and said, "I think we can warm you up again." He lowered his voice to a seductive whisper, "You'll be sweating in no time."

"But I just got dressed," she replied a little coyly.

"A vanishing spell would take care of that." He slid his hand down the satin material of her skirt and, reaching the bottom, grasped it, raising the hemline. "But it's not necessary." She laughed and leaned in to kiss him again.

...

He left as soon as she was asleep once more.

...

Briskly heading for the stairs, he focused on what needed to be done, pleased to find it was easier now that he was away from Charlotte. He went downstairs one floor.

" _Massster…_ " The voice came to him from within the wall. " _Let me kill…_ "

He smiled and seemed to expand with it, feeling the rush that command of such a beast gave him. " _The girl down the hall, around the corner_ ," he answered it. He understood the hiss that followed to be one of wicked glee, which he too felt. The basilisk having been set its task, he returned to the Room of Requirement.

Charlotte's wand lay on the table beside the bed, like a wizard alarm clock, it was set to wake them early enough that their absence in the night would go unnoticed, returning to Slytherin common room before anyone woke up. He lay down beside her, but he was too excited to sleep, thinking about the events he had just set into motion—the first attack. It would take time, but he would purge the school of those who did not deserve to be there. _Mudbloods_. The word conjured contempt in him, but he felt much more strongly about the fact that it was Salazar Slytherin's mission he was continuing. He, the Heir of Slytherin, had such great importance. To get any rest, he had to swallow a sleeping potion. In the morning, he would see the result of his work. The only thing he didn't look forward to was having to hide his achievement.

* * *

Charlotte awoke at the prodding of her wand. "Ugh." She grabbed it and sat up. "Sometimes this thing has a mind of its own—like I want to wake up to being jabbed in the side with a stick."

Tom stretched, an amused smile on his face. "You aren't always so irritated in the morning, I hope," he said with a yawn.

"If I say yes will you still want to spend nights with me sometimes?"

He laughed and drew her arm up to his mouth, kissing the inside of her wrist. "Of course I would." They dressed themselves in their school clothes and started for the dungeons.

"I hope we don't run into Peeves," Charlotte said. Tom looked at her with laughing eyes and a sort of crafty, sly smile. She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"I've diverted Peeves. At the cost of whoever has Charms first and Professor Runewood's peace of mind, but at least he'll stay out of our way."

"You really do think of everything," replied Charlotte. He bowed his head in agreement combined with gratitude for the compliment. But then she thought of something she very much hoped he had also been as prepared for. She would have stopped in her tracks at the thought if they had not been in such a hurry. " _Contraceptif_ ," she murmured, never having needed to learn the word in English.

"What?" Tom asked, confused at first, but the word was similar enough he realized what she meant. "Oh. I've taken care of that too." She breathed a sigh of relief.

"That must have been in a book in the restricted section." She gave a nervous sort of laugh.

"Yes, where all the best information is," he joked, but she thought she saw a look of distress, maybe regret, flash across his face after he said it, as he looked away.

...

At the time when curfew normally would be lifted, an announcement echoed through the castle in Professor Dippet's voice. "All students will remain in their houses until further notice."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Woohoo, new plot—the Chamber of Secrets has been opened! Although none of the characters, aside from Riddle obviously, know that. So look forward to the next chapter starting off with some lighthearted Valeria moments (fangirling, teasing, etc.) before things get serious. Because she is just fun to write.

I feel like I could have done a better job with Tom's "I shouldn't have said that" moment at the end, when he talks about the restricted section. (Just in case it it wasn't clear, that's all it was; he didn't lie about the contraceptive, which, I assume, can be done magically in the wizarding world.) What's implied there is that he regrets giving Charlotte any hint about how much time he spends in that part of the library, which might make her privy to his many secrets.

Overall I'm pretty satisfied with how this chapter turned out, given that initially I felt quite reluctant to attempt any remotely suggestive scenes. I'd be happy to hear what any readers thought of this chapter, or anything so far~


	9. Chapter 9

"You look like you hardly got any sleep," Valeria observed. Charlotte avoided eye contact. "Come to think of it, Riddle looks like he didn't get much sleep either…"

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Charlotte said.

"You didn't—!" Valeria exclaimed, and not referring to what her friend supposedly had not noticed; evidently, she was not fooled by the deflection. Now Charlotte could no longer avoid eye contact, and the look on her face made things plain to Valeria. "You did!" She gasped. "I was joking! Well I'm shocked!"

"Keep it down," Charlotte hushed. Looking past her, Valeria's eyes widened and she quickly turned away; Tom had just stopped by them.

"I'm sure Valeria was just congratulating you on your excellent test scores," he said.

Without turning around, she answered, "I won't tell anyone; it's not my business."

"She noticed we both look sleep deprived, apparently," Charlotte explained.

"You don't," Tom said, in flattery taking the form of surprise. "You look very pretty; no one will notice." A tiny, high-pitched sound came from Valeria. "And anyway," he continued, "no one would think anything of it; we have OWLs this year and everyone's doing extra studying whenever they can."

Valeria snorted. "You can say you were practicing your _Charms_ ," she said slyly, looking over her shoulder at them. Then she added sarcastically, "Because everyone will believe that both of you stayed up late _studying_. _On Valentine's Day_."

"Thank you, Val," Charlotte said, rolling her eyes, but not without a laugh. "Although we've also all just been woken up early, and that can make people look tired."

"Alright, I'll give you that one," Valeria replied. Sure enough, looking around the room, one found a number of bleary eyed, yawning students.

Their conversation was interrupted by the loud entrance of a grim looking Professor Slughorn, which was an abnormal thing to see—both his presence in the common room, and his severe demeanor. Following him was Professor Dippet, who looked equally stern. Whatever happened was not good. "Students of Slytherin House," Dippet called out. "Last night something very serious happened to one of your peers, Miss Perdita Pepper. By magic unknown, she has been petrified, a frozen, comatose-like state, curable by the Mandrake Restorative Draught, but very serious." He emphasized the last two words. "In order to keep everyone safe, we ask that anyone who may have information about this incident speak up. It is gravely important." He looked around the room at them all. "Today you will have a revised schedule, which will be posted over there," he nodded to a nearby wall. "Breakfast will be served in each common room shortly. You will not leave the Slytherin Dungeon until your first class. Additionally, any suspicious activity should be reported to me or your head of house." He gestured towards Professor Slughorn. "That is all." With that he left them to their anxious chatter of what possibly could have caused such a thing to happen. Meanwhile Slughorn went over to the wall to attach a parchment with their adjusted schedule on it, then headed for an unoccupied armchair and sat there, hands fiddling with an empty potion bottle he pulled out of his pocket. Evidently he was to stay with his students until further notice also.

By now, whispers had filled the room.

"Who'd want to harm Perdita?"

Seeing Slughorn still in the room, and seated at a distance from the clusters of speculating students, Tom had headed over to him. Charlotte followed, leaving Valeria on the bench, lost in thought.

"What about someone outside the school?"

"You mean like…"

"Grindlewald? The war? This could be connected."

"Why would Grindlewald attack Hogwarts?"

"Maybe he's finally decided to bring the war over here. Don't know why _now,_ though..."

"He could be trying to send a message to someone, like someone in power. He targets the higher-ups in other countries Ministries of Magic, doesn't he?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Perdita's a muggle-born though. It can't be her parents he's threatening."

Charlotte felt a sense of fear grip her, and that sensation of one's stomach dropping, as she realized that, if something like what they were imagining were to happen, she was a very likely target. And it wouldn't be the first time someone in her family had been deemed an enemy of Grindelwald. She pushed the thought away. The attack on Perdita didn't fit his pattern, as the group of students was concluding, so Charlotte tried not to think about it anymore, to not to let it worry her. Tried.

"Tom. Charlotte." Slughorn acknowledged both of them.

"Sir," Tom began, addressing Professor Slughorn, who tried to look somewhat cheerful, which was more easily accomplished faced by his favorite student, even in this situation. "I wondered if you could tell me anything more about what's going on."

"Not much, I'm afraid," he answered. "That is, there's not much we know. Miss Pepper was found on the sixth floor by Professor Merrythought, near her office, early this morning. We don't know at what time the petrification occurred, nor who, or what, was responsible. Or why, for that matter." Slughorn frowned.

"Any idea what she was doing there? Before she was attacked, that is," Charlotte asked. "She was very far from the Dungeon when she wasn't supposed to be out."

"Indeed, she was," Slughorn nodded. "She was dressed up, had a mirror in her hand;"—a look of understanding quickly passed over Riddle's face—"I suspect she was meeting someone, a Ravenclaw or Gryffindor boy, who we now must hope can give us some explanation."

"But they probably hadn't met yet, since she was using a mirror, so he should have been the one to find her," Charlotte reasoned curiously.

"Maybe he stood her up," Tom said. "Or maybe he's the culprit."

"I'd hate to think it was a student," Slughorn said. "A rather dark piece of magic, petrification—and difficult to pull off. Of course, I'd also hate to think we have a gorgon loose in the castle."

Just then breakfast arrived, magically appearing as it did in the Great Hall, in this case accompanied by a large table. The groups dotted around the room broke up and converged on the meal.

"Well, enough of that. The important thing is Miss Pepper will be alright, and we should be able to catch whoever did this soon. Now go have your breakfast. I think I'll have one of those blueberry muffins; they look very good," Slughorn said, hungrily regarding the food-filled table.

A blueberry muffin rose up from the table and whizzed towards them, coming to a halt in front of the professor. Tom was smiling. "Riddle, you never fail to impress!" Slughorn exclaimed proudly, reaching out and taking the muffin. "I'll see you both in potions later," he said.

* * *

The Professor Runewood who welcomed them to Charms class that afternoon was on edge. "I'm sorry," she said somewhat shrilly. "Opening the classroom door today resulted in an explosion of firecrackers set off, obscene words being scribbled on the blackboards, Professor Dumbledore's tenpins ball rolling across the benches—" Snickering and some outright laughter broke out across the class. Tom knew better than to catch Charlotte's eye, and she was smart enough to do the same. "It's not funny!" Professor Runewood exclaimed, more shrilly than before. "The girl could have died!" The room immediately grew hushed. A look of mild shock came over the professor's face. She collected herself. "What I mean to say is—petrification is not very far off from death. And the kinds of things that can carry out a petrification are not very friendly, so death is, I think, within their means."

Tom concentrated greatly on maintaining a passive expression, but this comment showed she, and perhaps the rest of the staff, suspected a basilisk. He had not expected that. Although, that morning, Professor Slughorn had told them nothing of such suspicions, and he could be trusted to tell the truth, to Tom at least. So maybe Professor Runewood was simply superstitious and, having heard the legends, feared the worst.

Professor Runewood had been carrying on in exasperation, "On today of all days, in the midst of catastrophe, Peeves decides to set up a Rube Goldberg apparatus in here…"

"A what?" someone asked curiously.

"Rube Goldberg apparatus," Runewood answered, enunciating the name. "One object affects another in a chain reaction of—mayhem." She was obviously still flustered.

"I've never heard of that. Is it a muggle thing?"

"Yes, it is," she replied hesitantly. Then, wringing her hands, she said, "And now we'll be starting our lesson. No more about that."

This was odd. Her reaction to admitting knowledge of a muggle contraption suggested she was muggle-born, and frightened to let them know that. This suggested she knew even more about the task of the Heir of Slytherin at Hogwarts. Tom didn't like it one bit. Still, Runewood was not a very muggle sounding surname. But, regardless, she suspected too much, even if it was likely just superstition, and that was a problem. He decided he would contemplate his decision further before he acted, because attacking a teacher was bound to cause more trouble than attacking a student.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I wondered whether attacking a teacher would be "bound to cause more trouble than attacking a student", and thought about changing the wording. Because, on the one hand, a teacher would have to be replaced, yes, but a student's family might cause trouble—a very likely reaction of a parent whose child has been harmed. But I realized, Riddle wouldn't think of this, this familial retaliation driven by love; further, I think he would see the teacher's superiority as being in a position of authority, and focus on that to determine their importance, because he seems like one to think in terms of rank. So I left it, as it fits quite well. And that's the end of my little analysis of that.


	10. Chapter 10

Each day that passed after the petrification of Perdita Pepper built on the general anxiety of the school. No one came forward with any information about the attack. Charlotte wished she knew something that would have helped, as she and Tom had not been far from where Perdita was found; although, if she had been able to supply information, she would have had to admit they were breaking curfew—something which likely wouldn't happen again for a while, as the ghosts and occupants of portraits had been implored to stay on high alert until the perpetrator of the attack was caught. Not to mention the considerable uneasiness about being in danger in the castle that Charlotte felt, and assumed Tom felt also, although he did not show much concern.

"What, or who, do you think is responsible for what happened?" she asked him one day as they were walking from the Great Hall, after lunch, to Transfiguration.

"Grindelwald," he replied coolly. "It makes perfect sense." Just as the Slytherins Charlotte had overheard the day the attack was reported had said. This was the most popular theory of the student body, and likely among the teachers as well, although they didn't say it. It was, for the most part, logical. "What do you think?" Tom asked her.

"I suppose I suspect that it's Grindelwald too. I don't know what else to think."

"That's because Grindelwald is the obvious culprit. You heard what Professor Slughorn, and everyone else has been saying; petrification isn't something the average wizard can do."

Charlotte didn't reply immediately, but she eventually decided to say what was on her mind. "He often influences—uses—other people to… achieve his ends." She'd had to force the end of the sentence out of herself; her body fought the words. "He may be behind it, but he may also have a puppet somewhere."

"What makes you say that?"

"My cousin was once such a puppet." Then she added in a whisper, "And his family was the target."

"And were you…?" He wanted to know if that had included her.

"His parents," she answered. "He was tasked with killing his parents." She was trying to speak matter-of-factly. If the emotion stayed out of her voice, maybe it would stay out of her heart too.

"What happened to him?"

"He was killed." She couldn't do it, couldn't say it. There was more to it than that. Her uncle and cousin, father and son, had ended their lives in a duel. Set against his family by Grindelwald, Corbin, Charlotte's cousin—mind twisted into believing he was doing something necessary, something good—cast the killing curse on his father. That much Charlotte knew, how the boy ended up dead as well, she hadn't been told, and neither had her parents, as far as she knew. "My aunt was there," she said. "The one I mentioned, who my family went to visit last year?" Tom nodded. "It's been hard for me to accept what happened; I can't imagine what it must be like for her."

"Is that how you learned about losing magic in despair?" he asked quietly. They were standing outside the transfiguration classroom now. "I know you told me your father mentioned it and that's how you knew, but the way you said it—I felt like it wasn't the truth."

"I didn't want to tell you the whole story then," she admitted.

"You still haven't. Will you?"

She took a breath, making up her mind. "I will," she answered decidedly. "But there isn't time now."

"This evening then, perhaps?" Tom asked. She smiled, nodded, and they joined the last stragglers entering Transfiguration.

Professor Dumbledore was standing at the blackboard, orchestrating several pieces of chalk drawing diagrams. As the last students took their seats, he turned to face the class, smiling pleasantly.

"Today you will be practicing the doubling charm, which I find is particularly useful in duplicating an identical sock when its mate has gone missing, as so often happens with socks. However, you will find your replica sock worn threadbare much faster than the original, copies made using this spell degrading more quickly than their counterparts."

Beside Charlotte, Valeria was scribbling away on her parchment, until she flung her hand into the air. Professor Dumbledore nodded at her. "Does it duplicate the effects of enchantments on objects as well?"

"A very good question, Miss Lowell," he said with a smile. "It can, if the ability of the caster is great enough." She added to her notes and then looked up attentively; this lesson had now garnered her devoted interest.

Throughout the lesson, Charlotte noticed a something she hadn't previously. Tom was cordial with Professor Dumbledore, but not his usual charming self, and she wondered if he disliked the professor for some reason.

...

In Potions that day, they were set the task of brewing a Draught of Peace. Not long before the end of the class, Valeria, who had run over to the supply cupboard to get more porcupine quills, let out a shriek. Charlotte nearly tipped an excess of powdered moonstone into her cauldron at the sound. Unfortunately, several of her peers had not been so lucky, and were now glaring at Valeria for probably ruining their potions.

"I'm so sorry!" she said, a bit mortified. "I'm too excitable. Really it's nothing serious. But there are spiders all over the wall in there." She made her way back over to her cauldron. Tom's Draught of Peace was one unaffected by Valeria's ill-timed outburst, and he looked on calmly as she explained herself, a very brief smile flashing onto his face as she mentioned the spiders.

"All of you stay focused on your potions; I'll have a look at these spiders," Professor Slughorn said, a jar in his hand, presumably to catch a few of the spiders for some use they might have.

Henry Sprott followed him anyway, stopping at the doorway and looking over Slughorn's shoulder. "They're tiny!" He turned back to look at Valeria in an amused yet irritated way.

Valeria replied without looking away from her simmering potion, "I don't care what size they are when there's _fifty_ of them."

"Mr. Sprott, your Draught of Peace will be turning green instead of white if you don't mind it," Professor Slughorn reminded him.

"It's already green, thanks to her." Henry glanced into the closet again, "And I don't see fifty spiders here, maybe half that many." Valeria composedly remained intent on the orange substance in front of her, also intent on not engaging anymore with Sprott.

"Well, that sort of thing happens, I'm afraid," Professor Slughorn said. An unkind teacher, and one who did not tend towards giving this particular student preferential treatment, might have deducted house points for Valeria's damage to her classmate's potions, but he only continued, "Disastrous effects can be produced if something unintended happens to a potion, but the world won't cease distractions and such things because of that. Let this be a learning experience." Likewise, an unkind student, or one who did not cast the occasional glance indicative of some fondness across the Great Hall towards this particular fellow student, might have held this against Valeria; however, Henry Sprott was neither of these.

...

"When I suspected you were covering something up about a loss of magic, my first thought was that it happened to you," Tom said over dinner.

"Me?" Charlotte's eyebrows arched quite high and stayed there in her shock that Tom thought her so fragile.

"It made sense that you would hide the truth from me if it had been about you, that you wouldn't want to tell me something so personal. I know you were having a difficult time when you first came here—"

Charlotte stopped him. "Not that difficult, thankfully." She didn't like the thought of him considering her in such misery as that. He might think of her as weak. What she didn't realize was that, even if that had been her true past, it shouldn't have made him view her as weak at all; it would be a testimony to her strength that she had made it to where she was now.

But in reality what did comfort her was a feeling that Tom wasn't likely to act out of pity, so she knew that he hadn't simply felt sorry for her when he first asked her out. And even if that had been the case then, it couldn't be anymore; he was drawing her closer now, not pushing her away. He had to have feelings for her, strong ones.

"So tell me what happened with your cousin," he said. "However much you want to." And he was considerate of the fact that maybe she didn't want to talk about it. This brought a smile to her face, momentarily overcoming the sadness she felt towards the events she was about to share with him.

She said what she had kept to herself earlier. Tom listened to every word, made sympathetic remarks, asked questions when Charlotte was unclear, which was sometimes due to a lack of information from the start. "So they both cast the killing curse at each other, at the same time?" he asked.

"I don't know. Maybe. But my aunt had this guilt about her, and that could be for any number of reasons,—a feeling of responsibility for the choice her son made, that she couldn't save either of them—but I also wonder if she…"

Tom understood. "Killed one of them?" he replied quietly.

"It would be hard to believe, but that's precisely what happened with Corbin, so I can't assume.

"He was seven years older than me, so I wasn't that close to him. But I at least felt like I knew him. So either Grindelwald, through magic or some other power of persuasion, changed him to the point that he was unrecognizable, or he hid his darkness for nineteen years. Both of those are… really scary. Terrifying."

Tom was surprisingly unaffected by her words. His expression was calm as he listened, except for his eyes, which almost always gave the impression that he was calculating something—studying, hypothesizing, testing, discerning. But she didn't see anything wrong with that.

"My aunt was devastated, of course, after it happened. I don't know if she'll ever recover… It was seeing her that was really awful. It seems like there's nothing you can do to help. What do you say to someone in those circumstances?"

She wasn't really asking him, but he said in a whisper, "I don't know…"

* * *

As Charlotte expressed her fears of deception, Tom had needed total control of his body language, to not show that he found this highly amusing, with all its irony. He was everything she feared.

It would have been more helpful for him to have appeared sympathetic, but he couldn't manage it, not when a smile, laughter even, was trying to take over his mouth.

He was pleased Charlotte had confided in him; certainly he would find a use for the information.

As for Perdita Pepper, while it was regrettable that she had merely been petrified and would be able to continue at the school, Mudblood that she was, there was at least the knowledge that the fear gripping Hogwarts because of this "tragedy" could be drawn out; he enjoyed inciting panic among those around him. All this—all the patrols of ghosts and nervous theorizing about who was to blame, the anxiety of the staff as they searched for an answer, articles in the _Daily Prophet_ reporting something was disturbing the safety of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, all this was his doing—his accomplishment. He took pride in that, even if no one else could know he was responsible. One day they would, or, if not, they would know of him through greater feats. Taking on the task of the Heir of Slytherin was certainly the greatest thing to happen in his life so far, but he didn't intend for it to remain his crowning achievement—he was only sixteen, after all. Sixteen years into the life he intended to make endless.

There were still many Muggle-borns in the school, including, he suspected, Professor Runewood. If she was, Tom decided he could not allow her to continue as a professor. And how she knew so much about the Chamber of Secrets, he had no idea, but he would try to find out. He also contemplated various outcomes were he to have the basilisk attack her or leave her be. If she remained, she might inform the staff of her strange familiarity with the Chamber of Secrets, and they would catch on to his objective much sooner. This, he realized, could be helpful. More Muggle-born students than he could feasibly attack might simply leave the school of their own accord, in fear for their lives, and perhaps understanding their inferiority. However, if he attacked her, it might raise suspicion about the validity of her fears. But the idea of a muggle-born teacher… Slytherin would have been horrified to know of such a thing.

As for how he would carry out the attack, he could keep using the same plan until he and Charlotte were caught, _if_ they were caught, so long as he could ensure she didn't wonder at the concurrence of the events. Memory was malleable, however, and he had been studying how one could manipulate another's thoughts in such a way. He also would need to take her to the Room of Requirement more often, so that there was not the strangeness of someone getting attacked every time they spent the night together.

* * *

"I've just remembered something," Charlotte suddenly said to Valeria in the common room one evening. "At our house here in Britain, I think we have mandrakes!" Grabbing a quill and piece of parchment to take with her, she said "I think I've still got time to make it to the owlery." Valeria only had time to react with "Oh!" before Charlotte was hurrying out of the room.

The Slytherin Dungeon was a long way from the top of the tower where the owls were kept, and she wished she knew more shortcuts as she made her way up numerous flights of stairs. Then, on the fifth floor, she ran unexpectedly into Tom.

"You're in a hurry," he said, noting her rapid pace. "What's so urgent?"

"I think I can help un-petrify Perdita Pepper." Rushing on ahead, she didn't notice the apprehensive look that came over his face as he heard this.

"How?"

"The place my family moved to when we came to England used to belong to a Herbologist, and I'm certain there were mandrakes he'd been growing there when we arrived. Although my mother doesn't like them,—what with the fatal cry and all; I don't blame her—so she might have gotten rid of them. I can't remember. But if she didn't, and if they're mature enough, I'm sure she'd bring them here so that we can help Perdita!"

From behind, Tom put a hand on her shoulder to bring her to a halt. "There's no reason to be in such a rush; Perdita isn't in any danger."

She turned to face him and he dropped his arm. "Yes, but what about everyone else? She might be able to tell us how she was attacked, or even who did it! Besides, why shouldn't I do something about it right away?"

"Well," he began, putting his arm around her waist and guiding her down the corridor in the opposite direction, which she hesitantly allowed him to do. "I don't think you'll make it back to the common room early enough and, as a prefect, I'd have to reprimand you for that; we aren't allowed to be out as late ever since the attack, you know."

She stepped in front of him. "I do know that—all the more reason for me to write home sooner rather than later." Then she added with a little smile, "And you wouldn't take away points, not from me."

"I can't always make exceptions for you, Charlotte."

She looked at him oddly, uncertain of whether he was teasing her or speaking seriously, but, ignoring his strange response, she said, "A compromise then. You come with me, and after I've sent my letter you can escort me back to the Slytherin Dungeon like the rule-abiding prefect that I know you're not—at least not always." She carried on the way she had initially been going, grabbing his hand as she walked by and pulling him with her. He took a couple of larger strides to walk beside her, rather than be led by her. His hand stayed clasped with hers, but only loosely. In her other hand was the roll of parchment, which moments later slipped out of her grasp and hovered in front of her as they walked.

"You weren't going to wait until you got to the freezing cold, open-aired owlery before you wrote your letter, were you?" Tom asked with a glance over at her.

"No," she replied with a small laugh, raising her quill and releasing it in front of the paper. Enchanted to copy down words dictated to it, the feather could levitate on its own as needed. " _Chère maman_ ," Charlotte began, "N _ous reste-t-il encore des mandragores? C'est très important, pour préparer le philtre régénérateur à la mandragore_..."

...

From one of the many open arches in the tower, she watched her owl fly off into the night for a few moments before hurriedly making her way down the stairs and back inside. Both of them lacking particularly warm clothing at the present time,—Tom, because he had not been intending to venture outside; Charlotte, because she had left in such haste and had forgotten to bring even so much as a scarf—Tom had stayed indoors while Charlotte ran up to the owlery, because it was her letter to send. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest when Charlotte returned. He wasn't startled by the large door thudding shut behind her, and calmly waited for her to approach. Once within arm's reach, he pulled her towards him.

"Cold—just as I thought," he said in her ear. "Luckily for you, I'm not. Although this isn't as effective as _before_." It had now gotten to the point where she could hear him say things like this without blushing—although at this moment that was less pleasing because the blood flow would have warmed her face nicely. Instead, Tom's shoulder made for a way to put some heat back into her nose and cheeks, until he leaned away from her looking into her eyes for a moment before kissing her.

"It's a shame we can't go to the seventh floor tonight," she murmured.

"I think we're already on the seventh floor."

"You know that's not what I meant."

"But it's true. And maybe… maybe we could just go down the hall… right now." He said, pausing in his speech to caress her with kisses.

"We should go before anyone comes this way," she answered. He was too irresistible.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** " _philtre régénérateur à la mandragore_ " is apparently what the Mandrake Restorative Draught was called in the French version of the books (thanks Harry Potter Wiki en français). I felt pretty uncertain of how to write for Dumbledore, so I just went with a sock joke to play it safe, although I'll have to figure out how to write him properly sometime soon.


	11. Chapter 11

Tom was walking alone through a corridor on the ground floor. Very soon, the Ravenclaw quidditch team was due to return from their practice that evening, and he had something to discuss with one of their chasers. In the meantime, he, aiming to appear casually in the area when he intercepted Cyrus Quinn upon his entry of the castle, studied the paintings that decorated the walls of the hallway.

It wasn't much later when he heard the front doors of the school creak open and the arrival of the seven Ravenclaws interrupt the quiet. He headed towards the entrance hall at a pace that appeared to indicate he was merely passing by. Coming within sight of the group, he made eye contact with Cyrus and formed his facial expression to say _seeing you has just reminded me of something and I want to talk to you_. He approached and cut the boy off from the rest of his teammates, most of whom were heading for Ravenclaw tower.

"Quinn." He addressed him by his last name. "May I have a word?"

"I suppose," he answered, uncertain of why Tom was speaking to him, but evidently feeling honored by his presence. Tom moved further away from the other people around and Cyrus followed him.

"I saw you visiting Miss Pepper in the hospital wing earlier." Even if he hadn't actually seen him make this visit, he would have known it had occurred, because he had compelled the Ravenclaw boy with the imperius curse. And before, that he had given him the memory of asking Perdita to meet him on Valentine's Day.

"Yeah. What of it?" It was so obvious that he had something to hide. Tom smiled.

"I didn't know you were a friend of hers."

"What's it to you? I know for a fact that you're not her friend." Cyrus looked as though he regretted saying this as soon as the words had left his mouth. This didn't matter to Tom, however.

"I'm not sure you are either. If I'm not mistaken, your grandfather"—Cyrus became tense—"was a magizoologist, who took a particular interest in gorgons. And you, a Ravenclaw boy. An odd coincidence, I must say." Tom spoke very slowly, making Cyrus as uncomfortable as possible; he could have laughed with delight at how enjoyable it was.

"It's not what you think," Cyrus said quietly and with surprising calmness—then again, maybe it wasn't so surprising; he was innocent after all.

"All I think is that you should confess to being the one she was meeting before she is revived. It'll look better if you come forward of your own accord. Especially if you, as you say, are not responsible for what happened to her."

"That's true—I'm not," he answered quickly. "All I did was stand her up, which I admit is not very nice, but I certainly didn't want to see her hurt."

"No, of course not." Tom paused, watching Cyrus's face; he was clearly considering the advice. "I must be going now. I hope the decision you make is a wise one." He left him with one last smile, then turned to go back to the Slytherin Dungeon.

* * *

"So I never asked, what's going on with you and Winky?" Charlotte inquired of Valeria at breakfast one morning.

"A strictly business relationship, I think. Honestly, I can't see myself with someone named _Winky_."

"That _can't_ be the only reason."

"No, no, of course not—although I can't say it's not a contributing factor. It's too soon for him to get into another relationship really. But I'm very happy with what I've been able to do because of his quidditch uniform request. It's purely aesthetic at this point, because we don't want to break any rules, but who knows, maybe someday I'll revolutionize the standards of quidditch robes? Although I think I'd much rather employ someone else who would do that; I'm just not that dedicated to sports."

"Yes, I can picture you, covered in dirt on the quidditch pitch for garment trials…"

"I know you're joking, but that might actually happen, now that I think about it. We have to test out the changes we've made even at this level, because magic can be so unpredictable."

"It's strange, we don't really understand magic; we use it, but it acts in surprising ways sometimes."

Then the mail arrived. Charlotte looked around for an owl she recognized, anticipating a reply from her mother. Today, she was not disappointed. Neither was she disappointed by the contents of the letter.

"She has the mandrakes still; they'll be fully mature in about two weeks!" she said excitedly to Valeria.

"Is she bringing them herself? That would be fun, your mother visiting Hogwarts."

"Umm, _'…quand je les apporterai…'_ [when I bring them]" Charlotte mumbled as she read more of the letter. "Yes, she plans to bring them herself." Valeria, with an excited smile, silently applauded.

"She must have written to Professor Dippet as well then."

"Yes, but I'll speak with him too, just in case."

After breakfast, Charlotte approached the teacher's table at the far end of the Great Hall. Without visiting his office, which required a password, this was the only sure place she knew to find the headmaster. She got his attention as he was coming down the steps.

"Miss Soleil, do you need something? Or, perhaps you want to talk about the guest we will soon be receiving?" He held up a letter bearing his name written out in her mother's handwriting.

"I wanted to be certain you knew," she replied.

"Yes, Madame Soleil explained how you wrote to her inquiring about mandrakes, and how she will happily bring them to us, here, when the time is right." Looking at something behind her, his face broke into a smile, although it looked weak, which was not altogether surprising given his age and the general infirmity that accompanies such elderliness, and additionally the gravity of the topic he was transitioning from, not to mention the present grim atmosphere of the school.

Apparently it was the presence of Tom that could overcome all of these things and bring some sense of joy to the surely strained headmaster. Charlotte couldn't help but smile too as he came and stood beside her.

"Tom, my dear boy, how are you?" he asked.

"Very well, Professor, thank you," Tom replied politely. "And you?"

"Better than I have been recently," he said. "Has Miss Soleil told you about her mandrakes? Miss Pepper will be well again in a matter of weeks."

"Yes, she's told me." Naturally he wouldn't mention how he tried to talk her out of taking immediate action to that end.

"It's very good news. Now if only we can find the culprit behind the attack…" He trailed off, seeming to suddenly take into account that these were students he was speaking to and thus some things were not meant to be discussed with them. "Well," he began again, "I should go inform some other staff members about this. I bid you both good day." They each in turn nodded and returned his smile. Only a few moments passed before they were approached by another professor. It was Dumbledore, who evidently had taken his time finishing his breakfast before rising from the table after the rest of the staff.

"Miss Soleil. Tom." He nodded to each of them. Charlotte noticed he called Tom by his first name whereas he used her surname. She also noticed that Tom had flinched, almost imperceptibly; however, because they were standing so near each other, she felt his hand bump hers, and then turned to see his features showing a tinge of the dislike she had previously conjectured he felt for their transfiguration teacher. It seemed plausible this reaction was because of who was speaking to him, as he had not done this when Professor Dippet called him Tom. "I hear your mother will soon be paying us a visit," Professor Dumbledore said to Charlotte. "I am certain Miss Pepper would be grateful, if she were currently aware of the assistance you are giving her."

She smiled. "I look forward to things becoming, ah, _comme d'habitude_ [as usual] around here." She chose to use the French expression as it was the first to come to mind, possibly due to her mother's upcoming visit.

Looking to Tom, he said, "You must consider yourself very lucky to have such a girl, as thoughtful as Charlotte, in your life." Charlotte had not thought about the benevolence of her actions; mainly she had been concerned with getting the school back to normal, and somewhat the fact that she could play some part, take some credit, for that.

Dumbledore looked intently at Tom over the rims of his half-moon glasses. Tom stared back at him. "Yes, naturally, sir." He answered somewhat tersely, the _sir_ coming out especially stiff, and delayed as though he had almost not said it. "Charlotte is very important to me," he added with more warmth. She was unconvinced by this portrayal of earnestness, feeling it was an attempt rather than a sincere expression.

Dumbledore, however, smiled, and said "Love is a beautiful thing. Blessed with its presence, one feels able to accomplish anything." A look of sadness came into his eyes, although his smile did not disappear entirely. His cheerful demeanor suffered only a brief absence, and he regained his full smile with much more grace than Tom had just shown in his affectation. "It is, in my opinion, a most powerful form of magic, although not one harnessed with a wand."

"I don't know if I agree with that. I'm… not convinced," Tom said.

Dumbledore sighed. "Well, skepticism is also a gift. It helps us determine what is right, what is true. And what are we without truth?" He gazed out behind them and, taking in the rapidly emptying room, said, "The truth for me right now being that I am late." He put his hand on Tom's shoulder as he walked past. "Good day to you both." He smiled kindly.

It seemed their relationship was no secret from the teachers. Charlotte supposed that the staff must share observations about certain students' behavior and therefore had deduced that she and Tom were a couple, but it was certainly strange and a bit uncomfortable to think about. She imagined Professors Slughorn and Runewood gossiping, for that's what it was really, about the two of them.

"I think I forgot my copy of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ in my dormitory. You go on to Herbology without me," Tom said, already turning to leave. Charlotte had sensed his agitation during their conversation with Dumbledore, so she let him go without a word.

* * *

The challenge presented by the combination of speaking with Dumbledore, in front of Charlotte, and Dumbledore presuming them to be in love, saying so as directly as he had, proved too taxing for Tom.

First, he hated his name, but he hated it most of all when Dumbledore called him by it, because it reminded him of their first meeting. Then he had needed to say something endearing about Charlotte, his supposed love, and been absolutely not in the mindset to act as was expected. Knowing he had given a poor performance of his devotion had distressed him further. _And then_ Dumbledore had to go on philosophizing about that wretched thing— _love_. Tom couldn't help giving his response, although he masked his true feelings in uncertainty; he was completely certain he disagreed with Dumbledore, but saying so would have been unwise, especially with Charlotte there.

The situation he had just fled—he injured himself with this word, but it was necessary—would have been better managed if he had remained with Charlotte. Instead he had left abruptly after probably failing to properly show romantic attachment to her, which she would hold against him. She was going to suspect his deceit. He should have forced himself into composure, held her hand as they walked to Herbology, kissed her before they got to the greenhouse, assured her that it was Dumbledore he resented and not her. But he couldn't. Not only that, but thinking about taking those actions made him feel sick now.

She was becoming too much of a problem. She made him too angry. Right now he couldn't even be around her because it was putting him in such a state, reminding him of the lie he was acting out, which was a reality he would have loathed: _loving her_. But without her, he couldn't carry out his plan in the way he had intended.

At least several weeks remained before he would set the basilisk on someone again. During that time, he didn't need Charlotte. He could distance himself from her. Then, when the time came, he would apologize, show his affection again, passionately—and she would surrender to the passion. On the other hand, he couldn't be sure; she might reject his advances if he upset her too greatly by staying away from her. He couldn't neglect her now that he had won her over.

Exasperated, he fired a spell at a tapestry in the deserted hallway, ripping it partly from the wall. He raised his wand to cast another spell,—he felt like he would like to watch something burn at that moment—but stopped himself, and breathed deeply, still fuming, but trying to quiet his rage. So much did he want to let himself go, drop the façade, cause destruction. He didn't know what the best course of action to take with Charlotte was, and he felt he was being driven mad by the inevitability of irresolution accompanying whatever choice he made. It was control that he wanted—desperately.

...

He eventually made it to Herbology, informing Professor Beery that he had felt unwell and taken a short walk after breakfast—his general good conduct in the eyes of his teachers heightening their tolerance for the occasional, rare lapse in his model student behavior.

He had the opportunity, or rather, the obligation, to speak with Charlotte, as they were working near each other.

"So, you're getting your mandrakes after all?"

"Yes. They're still growing at _la maison Soleil_ , and my mother will bring them in a couple of weeks."

" _Excellent_ ," Tom said with an attempted French accent, hoping to disguise and distract from his displeasure at hearing this news. It was a good thing he had already begun arrangements for dealing with Perdita's recovery.

" _Très bien. Ma mère serait contente._ My mother would be pleased." Charlotte smiled at him. "I guess you'll be meeting her soon."

"Is there anything I should know about your mother? She isn't a legilimens or something is she?" That would be very problematic; so much so, he would have to find a reason not to be there.

"She's not, don't worry. Merlin's beard, that would be uncomfortable. ' _Charlotte, je sais ce que vous avez fait, vous deux._ ' [Charlotte, I know what you did, the two of you.]" She laughed. Tom didn't ask what she had said, but he could guess what it had to do with. "She's normal enough. I'm confident she'll like you—nothing to be concerned about."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I was having a hard time writing for Dumbledore, but then I just had idea after idea and it all came together. I'm really happy with this chapter.

However, I do feel that my writing style has changed a little. I've been reading _Sense and Sensibility_ and Jane Austen's way of constructing very long sentences, with lots of clauses and commas throughout, making for a complicated—perhaps excessively so—sentence has worn off on me I think. I've always been partial to complex syntax, but maybe it's gotten out of hand. Let me know what you're opinion is. ^-^

Also if I wasn't clear enough with what Tom's been up to as far as manipulating Cyrus and Perdita is concerned, let me know. Any questions at all, let me know. :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** The entire scene at the end of this chapter is getting taken out, possibly moved, but most likely deleted. As soon as I've written some new, more useful, content to take up the space.

* * *

Charlotte was on her way from Potions to Defense Against the Dark Arts when she almost ran into someone who was emerging from another classroom. She recognized it to be the Gryffindor boy from the party.

"Oh, hello there," he said with a smile.

"Hello," she answered, glancing inside the classroom. Gathering that the lesson that had just ended was for NEWT level students, she said, "Are you… a sixth year?"

"Seventh, actually." He paused. "Wishing you had said yes to dancing with me now?" he asked with a laugh. Charlotte snorted and moved to step around him, but he caught her arm. "I'm sorry. That was just a joke. I didn't mean anything by it." He let go of her arm. "Really I just wanted to talk to you because we have something in common."

"What's that?"

"My mother is part of the International Confederation of Wizards, just like your father."

"Oh? What's your name, and her name? Maybe my father has mentioned her."

"Amelia Winship is her name. And I'm Oliver. It's nice to meet you properly, Charlotte." They shook hands.

"That name does sound familiar, but I can't think of any instances… no matter though; it's nice to meet you." She smiled.

"I'm headed to Charms now. If you're going the same way maybe we can walk together and keep talking?" he asked.

"I'd like that. Although, it won't be a very long walk; I'm only going up one more floor." They started down the hall and Charlotte, trying to think of something to say, asked, "So is your mother headed to America soon too? For the gathering that MACUSA is holding?"

"Yes. Another one of the American initiatives to stop Grindelwald… Can you believe how long this has gone on?"

"I don't think I can fully understand how long the wizarding world has had to deal with the threat he poses. My whole life, as long as I can remember, there's been Grindelwald. Grindelwald and his fanatics. Grindelwald and his wizarding supremacy ideals. Grindelwald and his 'Greater Good'. It almost… makes it hard to imagine what the world would be like if things were different."

There was a difference in this conversation and just about every other one she had had about Grindelwald, in the last six years especially. She was relatively calm. Trying to figure out why, because it felt like some kind of breakthrough for her, she realized that Oliver's words hadn't been steeped in fear, as most were when they were about Grindelwald.

"One day there won't be any need to imagine it, a world without Grindelwald. We'll beat him. Here's hoping it's sooner rather than later." So much confidence.

Something about the way he spoke made her ask, "Do you want to be an auror when you graduate?"

"I—yes. How did you know?"

She laughed, a bit surprised. "Do you really? It just seemed that you felt strongly about _fighting the forces of darkness_ ," she answered, adding drama to the phrase. He chuckled. "Lucky guess mainly," she said.

When they arrived at Charlotte's next class, Oliver stepped into the room with her to say goodbye. "It was nice talking to you," he said. "Hopefully this won't be the only time we speak."

"I doubt it will be," she replied, smiling.

"I'll see you around," they said at almost the same time, then laughed. She went to her place in the classroom and he went on to Charms. Tom was already seated in the room and had been watching them curiously, but intermittently overwhelming the curiosity was an obvious displeasure at this interaction. As Charlotte came towards him he looked down quickly, the curiosity now fully displaced by the displeasure. Seeing his furrowed brow, she asked, "Is something wrong?" thinking that surely this couldn't be a reaction to her conversation with Oliver.

"No, it's fine," he answered without looking at her.

"If that's your 'I'm fine' face then you must look really out of sorts when you're angry."

He let her see him laugh, but did not reveal to her eyes the troubled look that followed it. After a moment he turned back to her and quietly said, "I appreciate your concern, Charlotte, but I don't want to talk about it right now."

"Okay." She was satisfied by this response; at least he had admitted something was bothering him.

* * *

The next day was Saturday and there was a quidditch match between Slytherin and Ravenclaw. Tom had no interest in the sport, so he had stayed in the common room, which was nearly empty, with everyone else filling the stands around the quidditch pitch. Being among that crowd might have helped him to appear normal, not unsociable, which could raise further suspicion in the event that anyone began to see through his well-mannered, nearly perfect guise—although that was unlikely to ever happen—and he might have gone with Charlotte, but she herself did not typically attend the matches, only this time making an exception because Valeria was going; needless to say, he did not feel the need to subject himself to spending time with Charlotte _and_ Valeria.

After a while, he decided to go to the library, anticipating that the match would soon be over and the return of his Slytherin peers would make the common room a less favorable environment. As he made his way upstairs, he discovered that the match had been a quick one and was already over. Judging by the chants he could hear, growing louder as they progressed towards the school, his own house had been the victors. He was pleased his house had proven itself superior, even if the matter was something as frivolous as a sport.

Before he could make it to the library, however, he was sidetracked by the unexpected crossing of paths with Charlotte… and an older looking Gryffindor boy, the same one who had yesterday accompanied her to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Immediately his heart jumped and his pulse climbed to an uncomfortable rate. His face felt flushed and he hung back for a moment, not wanting to be seen in that state. He glanced back at them again, walking towards him, and a lesser wave of the combination of sensations came over him. Now that his hands were no longer shaking, he stepped towards the two, who were engaged in cheerful conversation.

"I thought you were going to see the match with Valeria?" was the first thing he said to Charlotte.

"I did. But, since we won, she went to go congratulate Winky on leading his team to victory and I made my way back on my own. Then I ran into Oliver. Have you two met before?"

"No, but I know that this is Tom Riddle. I'm Oliver Winship," said Oliver, offering his hand. Tom took it and shook it firmly, giving the Gryffindor boy a hard stare.

"How did you meet my girlfriend, Oliver?" he asked without thinking. What was he saying? He hardly ever referred to Charlotte as his girlfriend.

"By chance really. But our parents sometimes work together with the International Confederation of Wizards, so we've been chatting and sharing similar experiences we've had."

Tom nodded, but couldn't think of what to say. After his previous ill thought out inquiry, he was reluctant to speak again. Charlotte, who was probably feeling the tension between them, put an end to the conversation.

"Well, it was nice having the chance to talk to you again, Oliver. I'll see you… sometime," she said.

"Likewise," he answered, and, much to Tom's relief, turned to leave.

Charlotte took hold of Tom's arm and headed towards the Slytherin Dungeon. She found an empty classroom along the way and they stopped there. "Someone's jealous," she said once the door was closed behind them.

"What?" Is that what he had been feeling? It seemed to fit, but could he really be feeling so strongly about Charlotte?

"You were obviously jealous of Oliver. It's a little surprising. I think that usually jealousy is found in people who are afraid of being replaced, who feel inferior in some way. I wouldn't think that you would have any cause to feel inferior." Now he really hated the emotion, but his ego liked how Charlotte spoke to him in this instance.

He put his hands on her. "I guess I just want you all to myself…" he said, leaning in to kiss her. She didn't let him, putting her fingers in front of his lips to block his way.

"I guess I just want you to never talk to anyone else, is more accurate," she said. He didn't think she was actually angry; there was a laugh in the way she spoke.

"No, you can spend time with whomever you wish. As long as they're not male." He joked in turn.

"Very funny." She draped one arm over his shoulder and looked in his eyes. "You don't really think that. I mean, you wouldn't actually ask me to stop interacting with boys aside from you."

"No, I wouldn't. Of course not." Only because he knew it would be ridiculous to ask that of her, she wouldn't do it, and would probably break up with him. But, not knowing this, she smiled and kissed him. Then there was a soft " _I love you_ ".

He hesitated; he wanted this phrase to be said on his own terms, when he knew he was capable of expressing it convincingly, but at this time he surprised himself with the seeming sincerity that came across when he said " _I love you too_ ".

* * *

A few days after this, they were sitting in the common room by the fire, alone, everyone else having gone to bed. They weren't saying anything to each other; Tom was staring ahead into the flames, deep in thought it seemed, and Charlotte had her head against his shoulder, relaxing with half-closed eyes. His left hand already resting above her knee, he crossed his other arm over his body to stroke her hair, which ended in him lifting her face, her lips to his. That kiss was followed by another kiss, and another, and quite soon they were lying on the sofa together in a way that would have looked incriminating were anyone to see them.

And it did. Talia Thisledown, sixth year prefect, came into the room after finishing her curfew rounds. She walked right over to them. "Ahem." She cleared her throat. Tom leaned away from Charlotte, who was pushing herself into a seated position, and tried to look mostly unashamed. "Just because everyone's asleep doesn't mean you can do whatever you like in here," Talia said, arms folded.

"We just got carried away," Charlotte replied hurriedly.

"I wouldn't say that," Tom disagreed. "We knew exactly what we were doing, and what we _weren't_ doing. Besides, we're being discrete. If you ever see us setting a bad example for other students, I welcome you to deduct house points."

Talia pursed her lips. "I'll do that." She headed for the girls' dormitory, then turned around to say, "And I'd tell you to stop now, but I'm not going to stick around and watch to see if you obey, so… just don't let me catch you again." She disappeared down the passageway.

"I should have known that some prefect would be coming back in late," Tom said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"We didn't actually get in trouble though, and that's your doing, so there's no need to apologize really." They sat in silence for a moment before she added musingly, "I forget you're a prefect most of the time."

"Often when I'm with you I suppose I don't act much like a prefect ought to, so that's understandable."

"It's because… I guess I don't think of you as Tom Riddle, the prefect, anymore, or Tom Riddle, Professor Slughorn's favorite student; I just think of you as Tom Riddle, my boyfriend."

Riddle was staring at her contemplatively with a vague smile. "You know, there's another name I sometimes use," he said, moving closer. "You can call me by it, but only when we're alone."

"Yes?"

"Voldemort." He said the name with force, with power behind it. It was no pet name she was being given to use.

" _Vole de mort_?" she repeated in a French accent, questioningly. "Flies from death? Or steals from death."

He smiled. "It's made from letters in my name. But you can think of it that way if you want."

"Voldemort," she said again the same way, only in an almost-whisper. She smiled, and kissed him.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Out of everything so far, I think that this last scene is the most uncomfortable; there's no ignoring the fact that this is Lord Voldemort. After I wrote it and reread it I just thought, cringing, "No Charlotte. Don't." Voilà, the tragedy.

As for the French translations of his name, ever since I learned French I've always been curious whether that was intentional, as it seems to fit very well.

Stay tuned for more of Tom's jealousy and how he deals with it, plus the arrival of Charlotte's mother~


	13. Chapter 13

With evening get-togethers out of the question due to increased precautions, Professor Slughorn organized a brunch for his select students. Tom was walking to the professor's office, where the social event was being held, followed by Avery and Lestrange; however, once there he would be obligated to sit beside Charlotte, who had become problematic for an entirely different set of reasons to what he had anticipated, although those expectations—that she would sometimes be too perceptive and inquisitive for his liking—did not go wholly unfulfilled either.

Entering the room, Tom saw someone whom he was not happy to find there. Although he had not previously received invitation to Slug Club gatherings,—other than the Christmas party, which had had a larger guest list under the reasoning of "the more the merrier"—Oliver Winship was present at this brunch. He was sitting beside Charlotte, with Valeria on the other side of her. Just before, he had found the prospect of having to take the seat next to his _girlfriend_ objectionable, but this change of circumstances was arguably more unpleasant. Oliver rose from the chair when he saw him.

"I suppose I'm in your place," he said.

"You suppose rightly."

Charlotte and Valeria shared a look that he could not read and he once again wished for the ability of a legilimens. He took the seat relinquished to him; Lestrange sat beside him, with Avery next to him. Oliver now chose the available seat next to Valeria, who did not object, from which Tom concluded that Winky Crockett had been another superfluous guest for the previous party and had not been added to the regular group, as Oliver had.

Professor Slughorn bustled in followed by floating trays of food. "My apologies for not being here to greet you all," he said, directing the trays to the center of the table. "There was a matter that required my attention, but it's all taken care of now." He looked at the students assembled there. "It seems I've arrived before some of my guests at least." Taking notice of his new recruit, he happily addressed Oliver, "Good to see you here, Winship! Glad you could join us."

"Thank you for inviting me, sir." He didn't exude flattery as much as others did, who might have said something about how honored they felt to be there, but he was aptly polite.

They waited to begin until the others had arrived, and then Slughorn went through his usual rounds of posing questions to each of them—some about family members, some about future plans, some about present endeavors.

"And what have you been up to lately, Miss Lowell?" Slughorn asked Valeria.

"I've been working on some new things, but I can't tell you about them…" she answered mysteriously.

"Oho, how intriguing! And I saw your handiwork at the last quidditch match; moving snakes were a nice touch to the uniform."

"Thank you, professor. And in a way we have you to thank for that. The invitation you extended to Captain Crockett at the holiday party allowed me to meet him, and things went from there." She smiled. Valeria was one who made use of flattery.

"I look forward to seeing Madame Soleil when she is here." Slughorn turned to Charlotte now. "When exactly will she be gracing us with her presence?" There was no irony or sarcasm imposing on his words; it appeared he truly held Charlotte's mother in high esteem.

"A week from today," she answered, smiling.

"I'm sure you are all aware of Miss Soleil's father, a French representative for the International Confederation of Wizards, but I don't suppose you know so much about her mother. I attended a potioneer's conference two years ago where she spoke about the effects of magic on ingredients, very fascinating subject; she's something of a pioneer in this, if I'm not mistaken?"

"On the scale that she works at, yes. We don't imagine that her group is the first to experiment with using spells to enhance the properties of plants,—and other types of ingredients, but her favorite is plants—however, there isn't any record of others attempting anything precisely like what she is working on," Charlotte answered. "Don't ask me for any details about their experiments though; I'm not very well-informed about them."

"Top secret then, is it?" asked a fourth-year Ravenclaw girl, named Calliope. Charlotte just shrugged, the perfect way to leave them all wondering how much she knew. Tom found this infuriating. He didn't even care about her mother's experiments, but he hated secrets—unless they were his own, of course.

"Well done in the last choral performance, by the way," Slughorn said to Calliope, who was more or less the star of the school's choir.

"Thank you, sir," she replied. "I'm sorry to say the next one won't be for some time; a lot of practices have been cancelled because of… you know." She meant the attack. They all understood. A tense silence clung to the group until Calliope broke it with an apology for the awkwardness, then the conversation carried on. But in that silence, fear was wordlessly expressed and Tom reveled in it.

...

He and Charlotte, having made plans to go to the library to study after the brunch, left together.

While they were walking, he said, "You can't seem to speak to anyone without your mother's visit being brought up."

"I know. I should just wear a sign that says 'Yes, Lisabelle Soleil will be visiting us in x number of days'."

"I'm sure Valeria could get that done for you." Charlotte laughed. It felt right to him to laugh with her. "Actually though, I'm surprised you're so eager to help her—Perdita, I mean."

"Why? Because she gave me a dirty look once after you asked me out?"

"It was probably more than once… But no. Because she's a muggle-born. And you're a pureblood. I know you've said yourself you have unusual views for a pureblood; but then you also accept your higher status gladly. Helping her could show you sympathize. And if the scale of such sympathy grows, the balance will be upset; the pureblood rank will dissolve." He tried to keep his tone even so as to not give away his prejudice.

"Balance? That's an ironic term. It's inequality." After a moment's pause, she added, "You're not pureblood. Should that change how I feel about you?"

"I'm different," he said tensely. It was all he could say. He wanted to tell her; he wanted her to know that the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself flowed in his veins. Then he had to convince himself that that was not a need for her approval; it was simply based on the respect that he deserved.

She smiled, seeming to agree with him.

"Well I doubt my small action will have that effect anyway. Although…" she hesitated. "Perhaps, um, don't mention to my mother that Perdita is muggle-born."

"She would treat her differently if she knew that?"

"Yes. Maybe. I don't know if it would matter to her in this case, but—about a year ago there was an incident where she declined the application of a pureblood wizard who wanted to work with her, because it was potentially dangerous work, as experimenting with unknown magic and potions is. The reason she rejected him was... she felt his life was too valuable. He didn't mind so much once he found that out, so it didn't turn into a scandal, but she's liable to let something like that happen again, and I would prefer to have as little to do with that as possible." So Charlotte _had_ been raised with the same ideals that he had come to take on as his own. He gathered that her concern was for her reputation, and her opinion of pureblood supremacy was still unclear to him, although she gave the impression she did not share her mother's views. "She thinks muggle-borns will be less competent, but pureblood life is too precious, so she compromises by mainly having half-bloods do the work." Tom might have expressed some interest in this being beneficial to him, were he not so rigidly opposed to making mention of his muggle heritage. "It makes sense I guess," Charlotte said.

"You guess? You don't sound very convinced."

"I'm not. Like you and your disagreement with Professor Dumbledore over the power of love." Was she trying to confront him about his dismissal of love's value? Not wanting to talk about that with her, he wasn't sure what to say at first.

"Like Dumbledore said, skepticism is a gift." He couldn't help letting a tiny bit of mockery creep into his tone as he quoted the professor. "As for me, I prefer certainty."

Charlotte's eyes met his. "So do I."

...

"Avery, didn't you ask Valeria Lowell to go to Professor Slughorn's Christmas party with you? But she said no?" Avery didn't answer, only gave Tom a mildly annoyed look. "It doesn't matter if you won't say anything; I know it's true. Doesn't that make you upset, what she did?"

"I'm glad she didn't say yes. She's not… good enough for me." Of course, Valeria was only a half-blood.

"But at the time, she stopped you from getting what you wanted."

"I suppose, yes."

"I don't think she should get away with that..."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Okay so something I haven't addressed yet in my commentary on the story is Charlotte's prejudice. In order to be someone Tom would want to have a relationship with, even if it's a fake one, I feel like she has to have pureblood supremacy tendencies. And be pureblood herself, which is why I made her that way. However, she is uncertain, which I've done to make her more likeable. She doesn't openly hate and oppress, but she's more likely to be complicit with oppression and she certainly is willing to overlook some degree of injustice. I think it's an important characteristic to show; it's the kind of prejudice that hides but skews our views while we may be unaware of it. Something to think about.

Sorry about the weirdly tiny scene at the end; I just needed to have that foreshadowing in there.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** First off, I have to thank a couple people. Bubblea, for double-checking my French for me—not being a native speaker and not having much occasion to practice lately, I'm a bit rusty. And galopitu, who has gradually been reading and reviewing each chapter; I really appreciate the feedback! Thank you to you both! And to everyone who has been reading~

* * *

Midway through the following week, Charlotte received another letter from her mother. She read it over once herself and then, to Tom and Valeria, both of whom were sitting with her, said "Enough of the mandrakes are grown up already that she's going to have the draught ready to bring with her on Saturday."

"Is that all she wrote you to say?" asked Valeria.

"She's also looking forward to meeting you, Tom."

"I'm looking forward to meeting her, too," he replied.

"And she'll be pleased to see you as well, Val," Charlotte added, because she knew her friend would want to be mentioned also.

"I'll be out on the quidditch pitch for a little while that day," Valeria said. "But I'll definitely make sure I get to see her."

"More testing of your new designs?"

"Yes. I feel like part of the team now," she laughed. "Who would have expected that?"

"Not me." Charlotte laughed along with her. Tom stayed quiet, but a smile was on his face.

* * *

Lisabelle Soleil carried herself in an almost regal way, head held high and confidence in her gait. Even Tom felt she was intimidating, but he reminded himself that he could make anyone like him, and he had no reason to fear her, or anyone. At this thought, however, he found himself longing for the day when he would have the freedom to forgo ingratiating himself to others and simply impose his will on them.

She wore a red cloak and the classic, black pointed hat that somehow had even made its way into muggle imagery of witches and wizards. Hers was embellished with black embroidery in a design reminiscent of plant vines. This was the only indicator, albeit a minuscule one, of her interest in Herbology; her hands and fingernails hardly looked like they spent any time working in dirt, which was something not even wizard gardeners could avoid if they wanted to do their work. It was very easy to see she was Charlotte's mother. She was possibly more attractive than Charlotte, but her daughter might in future resemble her more closely, Tom thought hopefully. But then—he caught himself—why did he care? He didn't see himself with Charlotte beyond their time at Hogwarts, if that long.

She greeted Professor Dippet, also there to receive her, before her daughter. Tom couldn't be sure whether this was peculiar or not because he hadn't been around parents and their children enough to make a judgment. He looked over at Charlotte; she didn't act surprised or put out, but kept her face still with a little smile.

"Professor Dippet, it is a pleasure to meet you. However I am sorry that it is under such circumstances in this school." Unlike Charlotte, she spoke with a distinct French accent.

"Indeed," answered the headmaster. "Have you brought mandrakes as well as the potion?" He pointed to a wooden box floating next to her.

" _Oui._ I am so glad they can be of use, but again, sorry that it is necessary."

Charlotte approached her now. They hugged and exchanged some words in French. He stayed back until Charlotte beckoned him over.

"Charlotte told me I should be here," he said to her, joining them.

Yes," she answered, clasping his hand in both of hers while she shook it. "She has told me so much about you; I couldn't wait to meet you myself."

"I'm very pleased to meet you too. The work that you do sounds fascinating. And, of course, I'm happy that I now know someone of Charlotte's family."

Madame Soleil looked as if she had been about to say something, then her look changed to something a bit sad. It was pity. Charlotte must have told her he had no parents. Next to him, she had stepped forward, preparing to intervene if her mother asked something regarding his family. It had almost been necessary, he reasoned; although, he would have been fine without Charlotte coming to his aid.

...

Charlotte had wanted to be present when Perdita was treated, because she felt she was partly responsible for the girl's more speedy revival. This worked very much in Tom's favor, as he had needed an excuse to be around the unconscious Perdita so that he could replace her memory of him with one of Cyrus Quinn. A diversion was planned so that he could do this while the others were preoccupied.

Madame Soleil's eyes traveled across the room as though looking for something. It was, in fact, _someone_ that she was searching for. "I wrote that I would be able to treat the girl when I arrived—and her parents aren't here? I would think they would like to be with their child at this time."

"They were told, but chose to distance themselves from our world; they are muggles, you see," replied Professor Dippet.

Madame Soleil muttered something he couldn't understand. " _Celles qui sont expérimentales auraient suffi_." ["The experimental ones would have been fine."] Charlotte later told him. At present, her only reaction was a sharp intake of breath and a sudden outburst.

"Her parents would be just as upset to lose her as you would be to lose me!" she exclaimed. Her mother looked at her, eyes wide in shock, face showing disapproval, her mouth already forming the words of a reprimand. Of course, even if the whispered words had been audible to others in the room, no one else had been able to understand, so this extreme statement from Charlotte brought a shocked and confused look to everyone.

" _Charlotte, je ne t'ai pas élevé pour que tu te conduises comme ça_!" ["Charlotte, I did not raise you to behave like this!"]

" _Non, tu m'as élevée pour que j'accepte le préjudice, n'est-ce pas_?" ["No, you raised me to accept prejudice, didn't you?"] Lisabelle was growing angrier, but she controlled it well. ' _Accepter le préjudice_ ' added some clarity to the subject of their argument for the English speakers, these words being recognizable to them.

Tom stepped in. "Let me talk to her, Madame Soleil." He tugged on Charlotte's arm, taking her aside from the others.

"You're causing a scene. Just like you didn't want your mother to do."

"I—I know," she answered slowly. It was now dawning on her what she had just done. "I should have not spoken in English at the very least." Tom smiled at her. She looked at him. "What do you think?" He was on her mother's side, but opted to express it in a less definite way, one more palatable to Charlotte. He would bring her around to his view eventually.

"I think… you should be proud of your ancestry, their history, your family's lineage. As you were that day when we spoke in the library about it." She smiled. "And I don't think you should fight with your mother," he added.

"I don't want to fight with her. I don't want to be against her at all." They stood in silence for a moment. Everyone else waited somewhat awkwardly for things to have cooled off. Madame Soleil, however, was carefully watching them together.

"Are you calm now?" he asked. She nodded.

"Yes." He started to lead her back to the group, but she stopped. "But I don't want to talk to her right now. Or any of them." She looked away, but glanced back at him briefly. "I don't think I can face it."

"Go then. It's alright. But if I can give you some advice, walk out with dignity, not like you're ashamed. You'll feel better." Before she had a chance to reply, or take his advice, Winky Crockett and another boy in Slytherin quidditch uniforms rushed in, holding Valeria between them. Tom did his best to look surprised. As expected, Charlotte, followed by her mother and Professor Dippet, hurried over to her injured friend. Madam Beauregard would obviously have to tend to Valeria, leaving Perdita unattended.

"She got hit by a bludger," said Winky.

"I hit it," admitted the other boy, "but I definitely wasn't aiming for her. It headed right for her though, swerved off course and made her its target. I reckon someone jinxed it," he said uneasily.

Tom quietly moved past the group surrounding Valeria and over to Perdita. With everyone else in the room otherwise engaged, he was free to do what he needed to about the mudblood's memories. He stood over her and concentrated very hard, pointing his wand covertly at the top of her head then whispered the spell. Feeling the feat had been accomplished, he backed away and joined the periphery of the huddle around Valeria.

...

Charlotte remained with Valeria when they administered the restorative potion to Perdita. Tom stood a bit uncomfortably between the two, feeling that he belonged at neither of the girls' bedsides, until he decided to join Charlotte at least momentarily while Perdita was revived. The Beater had left, but the Captain had stayed; he was just saying good-bye to Valeria, and apologizing that this had happened to her, when Tom joined them. Winky gave him a nod as he left.

"This should make Valeria feel better," Tom said, putting his arm around Charlotte and briefly pressing his lips to her cheek. Valeria laughed weakly.

"That's it, you can tell Madam Beauregard I'm perfectly well again."

"She hasn't lost her sense of humor," he remarked with a smile and a glance between her and Charlotte.

"You'd have to kill me," answered Valeria. He felt his heart give a jolt and he tried to compose his facial expression to something unrevealing. He forced a laugh. It came out naturally; he had thought about the irony that it was possible maybe one day he would kill Valeria. Her eyes were closed when he looked over at her. Charlotte's body language that he could feel didn't give any indication she had reacted to this exchange, so he felt he had been inscrutable and convincing enough.

A friend of Perdita's had arrived and was explaining to her what had happened. Tom heard her mention Cyrus Quinn, saying something about how rotten it was that he had not met her like he'd said. "But not the worst thing to happen to me that night unfortunately," commented Perdita.

They left Valeria so that she could rest shortly after that. Walking past the foot of Perdita's bed, he noticed she was looking at him strangely.

"I have the oddest recollection that… you… Never mind…" She shook her head, looking confused and a bit embarrassed. He didn't smile at her, only turned away. Evidently he needed to improve his ability to alter the memories of others. If he hadn't, through the manipulation of Cyrus, predisposed her to believe the lie he planted in her mind, she might have claimed it was him she had planned to meet that night. This was the truth—the former truth; now, he had arranged what others perceived as the facts to show a very different series of events, one in which Cyrus had asked Perdita to meet him on the sixth floor and then stood her up. If he had truly known about the date, perhaps he would have shown, but at the time he had not yet been made to believe he had spoken to Perdita in the first place.

"What exactly did your mother say, by the way?" Tom asked after they had left.

" _Celles qui sont expérimentales auraient suffi_. The experimental ones would have been fine," Charlotte said. The thought crossed his mind that it might be beneficial for him to learn French. "I believe they have some mandrakes that they're trying to adapt to not produce murderous screams, but as with anything experimental, you don't know how else it will be affected. Realizing Perdita is _just a muggle-born_ , she wished she had used those." She spoke bitterly, still upset with her mother; Tom's efforts to reconcile her to those beliefs were not yet at an end. Over time she would be made to accept her mother's perspective, and in helping her to do that, Tom would make himself more important to Charlotte, at the same time securing her in his philosophy.

Lisabelle wanted to see the castle, and Charlotte had to be the one to give her a tour. Tom agreed to come along because he wanted to make a good impression on Madame Soleil, not for the usual boyfriend-of-your-daughter reasons, but because he could tell she was a woman of some influence. He succeeded in doing this, given ample opportunity by Charlotte's unwillingness to say much to her for at least the first half of their walk around the school; however, she was unable to maintain this coldness for the remainder of their time together.

Standing in the entrance hall once more, they were speaking with Madame Soleil before she left.

" _Je l'aime bien_ ," ["I like him."] Lisabelle said to her daughter, motioning to Tom.

" _J'en_ _suis contente, maman_ ," ["I'm happy about that, mother."] she replied.

" _Il pourrait p_ _eut-être nous rendre visite pendant l'été_?"

"She thinks you should come visit us in the summer," Charlotte told him.

" _Je_ …" he looked at Charlotte to give him the rest of the words. "...would like that?" he said to her quietly.

She turned to her mother, " _Il—"._ He stopped her.

"I want to say it." Ingratiating Madame Soleil to him would certainly be a good thing.

" _Cela me plairait,"_ she said, and then added with a smile _, "énormément."_

He repeated this, including Charlotte's addition to the expression of his pleasure, which he assumed meant 'enormously'. Her mother smiled. He was thankful that she didn't say any more on the matter, which might have forced him to talk about his dreaded summer residence— _the orphanage_.

After several good-byes—Charlotte's, warm and mostly unaffected by their earlier dispute, implying that she was keen to reconcile with her mother—Lisabelle was gone.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** _Lisabelle_ is a name I made up; it just came to mind, sounding nice, and it doesn't have any particular meaning. I debated writing out her accent, as Rowling did for Fleur, but decided against it because it was too complicated, if I wanted to do it realistically and specifically. You'll just have to use your imagination.

I'd love to know what you think of this chapter! Or any questions you might have if something was unclear...


	15. Chapter 15

Tom and Charlotte were making the long trek up to the North Tower, where Divination was held, unaccompanied by Valeria, who had opted for as few classes as possible and took only two electives. She was now fully recovered from her bludger "accident". There had been an inquiry as to who may have handled the ball before it was brought to the quidditch pitch that day—but the person responsible would not be caught, Tom was confident.

On the way, they encountered Oliver Winship, who _claimed_ he was just on his way to his next class as well, but Tom thought he had seen the Gryffindor boy far too often recently. Charlotte greeted him cheerfully, like she had no regard for Tom's feelings. His feelings? What feelings were these?—he questioned himself sharply. With reason, he could assure himself that Oliver could do no harm to him and his objective. Charlotte's apparent disregard for his feelings was irrelevant, given that his affection for her was counterfeit, non-existent; however, he felt that Oliver's presence was an affront to him. This was irrational, but it was just as he had said to Charlotte when she'd noticed he was jealous—he wanted her all to himself.

He had heard the word "possessive" used to describe this. It fit. Some people said it like it was a bad thing, but, as with many other supposedly _bad things_ , he thought their judgment was flawed. Why shouldn't he be possessive? Charlotte had no reason, none that she could be aware of, to look for anyone else. His desire to monopolize her attention, at least romantically speaking, was as it should be, he concluded. He wanted, however, to _hear her say_ _it_ —to say she belonged to him, was his and only his.

When he first chose to involve himself with Charlotte, he would not have imagined such thoughts belonging to him. In fact, at the present time he was still somewhat disbelieving that these emotions existed in him. However, the urge to seclude Charlotte from other potentially interested romantic candidates was instinctual; he felt he could say with certainty that it did not stem from love.

Their interaction with Oliver was brief—and briefer because Tom had, without revealing too much hostility, reminded Charlotte that a number of flights of stairs remained between them and Divination, which they did not want to be late for.

...

Walking to Care of Magical creatures, Tom was pleased to be alone. No Charlotte. No chattering. No strange sensations of jealousy and… whatever else she conjured up in him. Then, from the stairs behind him he heard a girl's voice, mid-sentence, saying, "…strike you as being out of sorts today?"

Another girl replied. "Yes, she did. All through the lesson. I think I know why though." There was a pause. "My brother told me that, in his first year, on this day six years ago, her husband died…"

"Oh," said the first with sadness. "That explains it then. She was so gloomy by contrast, with her students all practicing Cheering Charms…" They had gone around the corner into another hallway and he could no longer hear them, but he had caught enough to deduce that they were speaking about Professor Runewood. Cheering Charms were from the third-year curriculum and Runewood taught third-year charms. This could explain her magical sounding surname clashing with the _dirty blood_ he suspected her of. If only he could confirm that she was muggle-born… They hadn't had Charms yet that day,—it was their very next class—but he couldn't bring it up himself; he wanted to avoid everything that could make him look like the Heir of Slytherin. That was why he needed Charlotte. (In the past, recalling this had brought a scowl to his face that demanded suppression; now, he had come to think of this fact with indifference, feeling neither the aversion to her, nor the love that he knew would not form in him.)

Arriving at Care of Magical Creatures, he was struck by an idea, a potential solution to his dilemma. He did not usually speak much with Valeria in this class, or at any time when they were not both with Charlotte, so he would have to come up with a pretense for engaging her in conversation before bringing it up, but if he could, in passing, mention to her what he had learned about their Professor, he could put the thought into her head—non-magically in this case—to say something once they got to Charms.

"Valeria," he said, approaching her after class. She turned, her face showing surprise at his addressing her. "It's good to see you're doing better."

"Thanks," she answered. "Although I can't say I'm entirely better. It's unnerving, knowing someone probably tried to harm me intentionally; I don't feel safe anymore."

A perfect opportunity. "Well, would you like me to walk with you back up to the castle?" He gave her a smile. She laughed—the giggle that he found rather irritating.

"That's thoughtful of you, and I accept." How ironic that _he was_ the one she ought to be afraid of.

With there now being a need to make conversation, he was able to implement his plan. "It seems Professor Runewood is likely to be dispirited today in class," he commented nonchalantly.

"Why's that?"

"I heard that she's mourning her husband. Today is the anniversary of his death." He didn't give her time to say anything, such as inquire where he had gotten this information, before he said, as though the thought had just occurred to him, "Maybe you could cheer her up."

"Me?" Although she said this as a question, her face and the tone she took on were not indicative of incredulity about whether she could accomplish this, or surprise at him thinking her capable. As usual, flattery allowed for all kinds of advantages.

"You are extraordinarily friendly, Valeria." She smiled at him. "I think you could ask her about it and she wouldn't mind." Now he paused, as though thinking. "You could ask her what his name was… how they met... People like to reminisce," he said. With any luck, Valeria would get the answers he needed out of the professor, and with no risk to himself.

...

At the end of Charms, Valeria hung back. Charlotte was starting to leave, but Tom caught her by the arm and said, "Don't you want to wait for your friend?" She agreed and they went to stand near the door so Valeria could catch up with them—Charlotte, thinking she would only be gathering her things; Tom, knowing better.

"Professor, I couldn't help noticing—you aren't yourself today," said Valeria. Tom's pulse quickened in excitement for his stratagem to go into action; hardly anything gave him more pleasure than seeing his manipulation at work.

Runewood gave a sad smile. "No. No, my dear, today is an unfortunate day for me."

"May I ask what happened?"

Professor Runewood had been walking around the room, collecting papers, and now sat down at one of the student desks near Valeria. "Grindelwald. Isn't it always?" She gave a joyless laugh. "Six years ago today, he killed my husband."

"I'm so sorry…"

"We knew it might happen. To call it inevitable would only be slight hyperbole." She was staring straight ahead of her, lost in memories, but still speaking. "They went to school together, at Durmstrang, before Grindelwald was _expelled,_ of course; they knew each other. He was never a supporter of Grindelwald, always was against him. He could have very easily taken the wrong side; he was pureblood. But he, by some miracle, was raised differently. And it hardly showed more than when he married me, a witch with muggle parents. It's shocking really, considering his parents sent him to that school, known for the Dark Arts and favored by so many pureblood families—those with less… accepting views. The Gaunts, the Marchands…" She named these two families with no small degree of bitterness, trailing off into silent thought. Tom felt another rush of exhilaration at the mention of his ancestor's surname, of which he was proud. Runewood's disdain for them only added to his loathing and low regard of her.

"What was his name?" asked Valeria quietly, taking one of Tom's recommendations, which at this point had become unnecessary inquiries, as he had all the information he required.

"Robert," she answered abstractedly. "Robert Runewood..."

"He sounds like he was a very kind and brave man," Valeria said gently. Professor Runewood smiled at her and she took her leave of the teacher with the final words, "I'll leave you to your thoughts."

The Heir of Slytherin had found his next target.

* * *

Charlotte couldn't get Valeria's conversation with Professor Runewood out of her head.

The three of them had left the classroom and walked on to the their next lesson without saying anything, other than expressing sadness at the story they had just heard, but Charlotte had wanted to say a lot of things.

She felt somewhat hurt at how Professor Runewood had made a connection between villainy and being pureblood—the way she had described her husband, as if simply the fact that he was pureblood made him more likely to join Grindelwald. But it wouldn't have been right to criticize her then, after learning of her loss. She had had no idea her Charms teacher had been through that.

Tom hadn't noticed the way she had reacted to the story; he had been listening very intently. She wondered what had captured his interest about it. But whatever it was, she was thankful for it; although Tom already would know the reason, she still was glad he hadn't paid attention to her pale with fright, upset face.

" _'_ _Grindelwald. Isn't it always?_ '"—how true this was.

* * *

There was a grassy slope leading down to the lake, on which, particularly when lying down, one was mostly hidden from the view of the surrounding area. Charlotte was relaxing there, her eyes closed, serenely listening to nearby birds, with Tom next to her, lying on his side with one arm resting over her stomach. The repose was about to be cut short.

With his other hand, he wove his fingers into her hair, and simultaneously she felt his touch travel from her waist to her shoulder, and a pressure applied there. The radiation of body heat told her he had his face very near to hers when he spoke, extremely softly. "You'll never want to be with anyone else, will you, Charlotte?" There was something subtly commanding in the way he said it that communicated what her answer must be.

"What?" she asked, letting her eyelids flutter open, pretending she had just been roused from a light sleep and not heard him, when really she had understood perfectly. _Never_ was a serious word; she couldn't really promise that, could she?

He repeated his question in the same way, informing her, "I said…", and the weight on her shoulder became less than gentle. But maybe that was only the result of him repositioning himself, centering his face over hers. After only a few seconds, he whispered in a teasing sort of way, "You're taking too long to answer." Brushing his lips across her cheek towards her ear as he spoke, he said this with more romance, balancing the contrast of his previous commanding tone.

"No," she replied. "Or would it be yes?"

A very small smile twitched across his face. "Say exactly what you mean," he said.

Placing her hand on his face, she said, "I never want to be with anyone other than you," and kissed him." His hand exerted less force on her shoulder. "And you? Will you always want to be with me?" He smiled and then kissed her again, with a great passion.

"How's that for an answer?" he whispered.

"I'm _almost_ convinced," she replied playfully. "But you should make sure there's no doubt about it." He laughed quietly before putting his lips to hers once more.

...

Alone in her dormitory later that same day, Charlotte lay on her four-poster bed, tracing the embroidered patterns on her bedspread as she thought about Tom Riddle—conflicted thoughts; not blissful, dreamy, romantic ones. Yet again he had forced her—no, that was too strong a word— _caused_ her, rather, to exaggerate her emotion towards him. She thought about Valeria's question, when she had told her about their exchange of _I love you_ s: "Does he make you feel pressured?" …Was the answer still "no"? Just that afternoon she had sensed something in the way he spoke to her. A demand for her to say what he wanted to hear. And she had said it. Why? Why was he able to have this effect on her, and why did she let him? She had no answer for herself. However, she _had_ answered her previous question; he did make her feel pressured—at least in that moment, he had. Stopping the absent-minded movement of her finger across the bedspread, her hand clenched the fabric into a tense fist. With a violent movement, she pulled the covering over her, turning onto her side facing the other way. Nestling beneath her blanket provided no comfort.

" _Charlotte, you're mine_." Tom had never said this to her, but she could hear the words in her head, in his voice. She wanted to stop thinking about him, but her subconscious was waging war, firing both memories and imaginings to wound her. It was working—driving her mad, at any rate. Throwing the bedspread off of her, Charlotte sat up, summoned her shoes, and tried to think of someplace she could go to take her mind off— She stopped herself from even thinking his name.

She prayed he wasn't in the common room, and luckily he wasn't—at least not that she saw; she kept her eyes fixed on the door and walked briskly towards it. Still without any particular destination in mind, she took off down the dimly lit dungeon passageway. Then a familiar voice called out to her from behind.

She turned around. "Oliver? What are you doing down here?" she asked, surprised.

He caught up to her. "Professor Slughorn wanted to see me. Apparently he knows he someone he thinks would be a good contact for me if— _when_ ," he corrected himself confidently, "I become an auror. Which I guess isn't that surprising for him." He laughed. Charlotte, weakly, laughed too. "What's wrong? You seem upset," Oliver said, noticing the look on her face, which had reverted to an expression of the distress she was feeling.

"I probably shouldn't talk to you about it," she replied. Her hesitancy came from the fact that she didn't know Oliver _that_ well and she felt he wouldn't want to hear about her issues in her relationship, but she was suddenly overcome by the thought that she was complying with Tom's desire to prevent her from speaking with Oliver, and the words burst forth from her anyway. "It's Tom," she said forcefully. So much for getting him off her mind.

Oliver's eyebrows went up. "Things not going so well with the two of you?" he asked. She tried to discern if there was any basis for Tom's jealousy, but Oliver seemed disinterested in that regard. "I got the impression you were pretty happy together. He seems to love you a lot, from what I hear."

"Perhaps a bit too much," she said hotly. He gave her a puzzled look.

"You mean that about him loving you? She nodded curtly and began to pace in front of him. "How can someone love too much?" She stopped.

"That's a nice thought," she answered, with an entirely different mood. She sighed, turning to face Oliver. "He suffers from jealousy. In fact I have no doubt that he would be pretty angry if he were to find me with you right now."

"Well that's no good. He shouldn't tell you who you can and can't spend time with."

"Exactly!" Charlotte exclaimed irately. "And today he— Never mind." Catching herself, she stopped; that was definitely not an event she wanted to relate to him. She wasn't even sure she could tell Valeria.

As if knowing her concerns, Oliver said, " _I_ may not be the right person, but I think talking to someone will help you figure things out. Like what's-her-name—Valeria?"

"Maybe," came her unconvinced reply. "Thank you for listening," she said, managing to smile at him. "I'm going to go now before you-know-who shows up and I have to deal with it." She marched away, leaving behind a frowning Oliver.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** I would recommend rereading the end of the previous chapter before beginning this one. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to split up Charlotte and Tom's reactions, but now I feel like the emotion is more perceptible if the other two scenes are still fresh on your mind. Up to you~

EDIT: As of now, about 2 hours after I first posted this chapter, I changed the ending, extending Valeria and Charlotte's conversation.

* * *

Charlotte had run no risk of running into Tom that evening, as he was also avoiding her. Wanting to be left alone, he had thrown the other three boys out of their own dormitory, and was now pacing around the room. He had gotten what he wanted, heard Charlotte tell him she was his, but the interaction had been impulsive; he had looked at her and been overwhelmed, suddenly needing the words right then—foolishly. It had seemed like a perfect time to have things play out as he wished; however, the entire thing, after the fact, felt absurd. He was losing control—not of Charlotte; _that_ he had demonstrated most effectively that afternoon, and it had been a glorious feeling—but of himself. Having allowed himself to act against his better judgment that day, he was concerned for what the future might hold, whether Charlotte might lead him down a path he did not want to take. That was precisely what he had always known love did, one of its insidious designs to prevent true glory from being attained. He had something he wanted to accomplish, the task of the Heir of Slytherin, and feelings for Charlotte were getting in the way, making him lose focus on his goal. It wasn't love,—he hadn't lost himself entirely yet—but it was something that could grow into love. Maybe.

He had never felt love and didn't see how it could suddenly manifest now, but he was afraid it might. Afraid— and he didn't like that. He didn't want to fear anything, and fearing love was especially repugnant. He hated love all the more for it.

* * *

A test in Ancient Runes was looming at the end of the week, and Charlotte felt unprepared. As Valeria had said at the end of the previous semester, when end of term exams were taking place, she had a natural aptitude for the subject, but that only made it more difficult when she suddenly found it challenging. She had gone to the library to consult some books in the Runes section, and who should she find sitting there, but Oliver Winship.

She saw him, but he didn't notice her, which was fine in her opinion because she was on a mission. She went to the other side of the bookcase to look for some helpful texts. Having selected a few volumes, she looked for an available table. Before she could get anywhere, however, Oliver came around the corner, a stack of similar books in his hands; he smiled when he saw her.

"That's quite a collection of reading material you've picked out there," he said, nodding towards her pile.

"I've got an exam, and based on how much I think I understand right now, I'll be lucky if I pass."

"Well, I'm still taking Ancient Runes as a NEWT student, so maybe I can help you?"

Charlotte hesitated. Tom took Ancient Runes with her. Letting Oliver help her as opposed to him was not likely to ease his jealousy. But Oliver was more knowledgeable about the subject, so she could justify getting help from him instead of Tom, and Oliver had offered while Tom had not, so… "Yes, please. Thank you," she said, gathering her books to go back to his table with him, and hoping that Tom did not find them there. She should have known better than to not expect to run into him in the library.

Oliver had clarified a number of things she was struggling with, and the tutoring session was going quite well, Charlotte feeling much more confident about that exam, when her boyfriend most inconveniently made an appearance.

"Studying for the Ancient Runes exam?" he asked, with surprising politeness, as he approached their table.

All Charlotte said in response was "Yes."

"How are you, Winship?"

"Not too bad. How about you, Riddle?"

"Fine," Tom answered calmly. Turning to Charlotte, he said, "Well, once the exam is out of the way, you have Hogsmeade to look forward to. I'm certainly looking forward to it."

"Oh? You're going again this time?" She asked with a smile, meant to hide her true present feelings about him, which were in turmoil.

"Yes." He smiled at her. "It's a good time for us to spend together—the closest thing we can have to a date here." Glancing at Oliver and then back to her, he added, "Let's talk more about it later." While he spoke to her, she could tell he was watching her expression. Not knowing his precise reason for doing so, she kept her lips fixed firmly into a smile, having had plenty of experience with this maneuver on the sorts of occasions she had been obligated to attend throughout her life, as the daughter of a wealthy family. Tom had said his parting words, it seemed, and turned to leave.

As he was walking away, Oliver said to her, "Good to see you two are on better terms." Charlotte became tense and just had time to flash him a concerned look before Tom turned back to them again. She kept her facial expression placid.

"When were we not on good terms?" asked Tom quietly.

Oliver, realizing his mistake, laughed heartily and said, "Exactly! That's the joke. When _aren't_ you on good terms? You're a perfect couple."

Charlotte laughed along with him to maintain the cover-up. Still, Tom didn't seem convinced. Before he could say anything, however, Charlotte walked over to him and took his hands in hers. She wished she could spare Oliver this scene, but felt it was necessary in order to secure Tom's trust. "I think we're perfect too." She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "Let's make plans for Hogsmeade soon. You did want to have a plan, didn't you? Is that not why you said we should talk about it?"

He turned her away from Oliver and said in a lowered voice, "Actually I wanted to talk about plans for _after_ Hogsmeade. As in—"

"That night?" Charlotte cut him off. He nodded. She had been afraid that's what he was getting at.

She could simply decline. But then wouldn't he wonder why? She could make up a reason—but she had a feeling he would be persistent. Yet wasn't that exactly what was her concern was? His occasional controlling tendencies gave her pause. She was experiencing that hesitation right now; however, she didn't know how much longer she could remain in uncertainty. She would have to choose to either confront him or to let it go, very soon.

"I'll see you in the common room then," she said, to imply that they would talk later, as he had intended. She smiled. He simply nodded again and gave a faint smile back.

As she went back to the table, Oliver, this time waiting until Tom was out of earshot, said, "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"Well, we handled it. But please don't do it again."

"Have you… talked to anyone else about him? Like Valeria?" Charlotte shook her head.

She took a deep breath and stood up abruptly. "I'll go right now and I'll get her opinion on it."

"I'll put your books away for you."

...

"I'm glad I found you here," Charlotte said to her friend, entering their dormitory. Valeria was standing in front of a dress form, working on the secret project she had hinted about at Slughorn's brunch. Charlotte, of course, knew all about it. "Can you drape and talk?"

"No," she answered. "But I can take a break to chat."

Charlotte sat down uneasily. "It's not exactly… well… It's something serious."

Valeria sat down too and composed herself to hear the serious topic—in a way that came off as a bit comical. Charlotte felt more anxious. She wished she had become closer to a greater number of people. Valeria was wonderful, but there was still that difficulty she had, or that Charlotte felt she had at least, in discussing severe matters.

"Remember when we were talking about Tom and—"

Valeria interjected. "You'll have to be more specific," she giggled. "Sorry." She composed herself again. "Serious." She truly did look upset with herself for her impulsive jest.

"After he first said _I love you_ … and I said I loved him," she added, mostly to herself. "You asked if he made me feel pressured." Valeria nodded.

"And you said no, he didn't. Has something made you reconsider that?"

"A combination of things…"

"Well if it's how he acted towards Oliver, like you told me about—everyone gets jealous. And he seemed civil enough when they were in the same room at the brunch. What are you worried about?" she asked, genuinely.

Charlotte paused. "That's a good question. I don't really know."

"He can't be perfect." Valeria shrugged. "If I recall correctly, in that conversation we also thought maybe you should talk to Tom about your concerns. Can you do that?"

At that point, she had been reluctant when they had talked about that course of action; Valeria had commented, "I can't say that's a very good sign", that Charlotte felt she couldn't talk to Tom about this.

"I guess I already did," she said, remembering their conversation in the deserted classroom right after he had first met Oliver.

"And what happened?"

"He's been better since then…"

"Well that's great! That's as perfect as you can ask somebody to be. You saw a problem, both of you talked about it, and he changed. Ideal series of events. So there must be something else?"

She tried to explain to Valeria what had happened by the lake.

"You still feel like he's getting too possessive?" Charlotte got the impression that she didn't understand. But how could she? She wasn't there. She didn't hear his words for herself. Charlotte couldn't properly express what she had sensed in them. Maybe that meant she had imagined or misinterpreted the subtext that had caused her concern—and it had been easy enough to push away when he was kissing her; she had asked him afterwards, without hesitation, to kiss her again.

"That's what I'm getting at, yes."

Valeria stayed quiet in thought, then said, "I'm sorry; I don't know what to tell you." After further consideration, she spoke again. "Maybe you're afraid of the commitment?" she offered.

"I shouldn't have to think about commitment; I'm sixteen!"

"It's not like he asked you to marry him."

"No, he didn't. But the idea is the same—to never want to be with anyone else?"

"I think you're reading too much into it. People say all kinds of things, people exaggerate. How many romances have started with 'You're _the one_ ', and still ended? A lot."

"You're wrong—about me having a fear of commitment. I think it's the opposite," Charlotte said slowly. "I want to love him unconditionally, forever, but I don't want that to be a wrong choice."

"You don't want to devote yourself to someone who is going to disappoint you? That's—" Valeria held her mouth open for a moment and then closed it without saying anymore. Charlotte looked at her questioningly. "I was going to say something sarcastic, but I thought that might be a bit insensitive." Charlotte smiled.

"Go on, I'm curious now," she laughed.

"Well it's just, that's odd. Most people think getting their heart broken is fantastic and actually hope that their relationships don't work out."

Charlotte was glad her friend had initially stopped herself from saying this; it would have hurt, had Charlotte not invited the sarcasm after the fact. But it helped her realize something and, as she spoke, she tried to reassure herself. "I see your point. This is normal. So, I'll try to stop worrying so much."


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry it's been so long since the last update! I have no excuse. But here's a longer chapter than usual. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

The following evening, Tom saw Charlotte looking over some books in the common room and approached her. "Do you still need help studying for Ancient Runes, or did _Oliver Winship_ answer all your questions?"

" _Oliver Winship_ just _happened_ to offer—and you didn't."

"And you didn't ask."

"Does it really bother you that much?"

He didn't answer right away. "No," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to show that I—" he stopped. "What I mean to say is, it's fine. If it seems like I'm bothered, as it did just now, I'm probably making a joke and it came out wrong." He was making an effort to stop the feeling of jealousy, not for Charlotte's sake or the sake of their relationship,—obviously he didn't care about that—but because of its connection to love; he wanted to stamp out anything to do with love. It was a fire; and it was best to extinguish it before it consumed him further and left everything he had worked for in ashen ruins.

* * *

At breakfast, Charlotte sat with Valeria in the vicinity of Tom and his friends, but not exactly _with_ their group. This was typical for them, and not the result of the potentially growing divide between the two—which was a distance Charlotte wanted to close. She wanted to move on from doubt, and in order for this to be the end of it, she felt she needed to say something to Tom about the change in her attitude that he may have noticed lately. On their way to class, she was determined to bring it up.

That something like the introduction of Oliver had strained their relationship surely wasn't a good sign. Then again, overcoming difficulties made people—and people together: relationships—stronger. Whether they came out of this broken or better depended on them, and the willpower they had to make things work. Charlotte felt all this to be true—and yet when she found the chance to speak, she lost the will to say the words she had intended.

"Tom, something has been on my mind lately," she began. He didn't ask what it was or give any indication that he wanted to know, other than a tiny nod for her to continue, after she looked at him for some reaction. "In the past week, has something been different? With us?"

"No, I don't think so. Is there something you've noticed?"

"You don't think that you've done anything unusual? Or that I've been different?"

"I've been trying not to care so much about you spending time with Oliver. Dealing with my jealousy. As for you… you may have been a little more distant, but I think it's alright," he said.

"Oh." Her plan to clear the air had been derailed, and now she worried that talking about the sense of possessiveness she sometimes felt from him might instead cause further conflict.

They continued walking in silence for nearly a minute before Tom said, "I think there was more you wanted to say. Is that right?"

There had been, but there wasn't anymore—not that she could say that. So she made something up. It was partially true, a real concern she had been feeling lately.

"That day when Professor Runewood told Valeria about her husband, she mentioned the _Marchand_ family, and she spoke of them with… distaste." Tom waited for her to say more. "Notice that's a French name."

"Relatives of yours?" he asked. She nodded.

" _Ma grand-mère_ , she was a Marchand."

"That bothers you? Why?"

"You heard her—her tone. Would you like to be part of a family someone could speak about with such loathing?"

Tom laughed almost inaudibly. "I remember you saying it doesn't matter who one's family was—that we make our own legacies, and that's what should count." Charlotte stayed quiet, considering this, knowing he was right and she _had_ said that. "Why should you be ashamed to be related to them?" he continued. "Are you afraid people will think of you differently because of it? Surely you've seen that isn't the case. Not _everyone_ feels negatively about them. It depends on whose respect you want."

"That sounds like something my mother would say," she replied stiffly.

"Regardless of that, you shouldn't let what people might think affect you, not when it's to do with something like that." She appreciated that he was trying to help, and her opposing feelings came to rest at a small smile.

* * *

Saturday arrived, and for Charlotte that meant a visit to Hogsmeade followed by time apart from everyone else spent together with Tom.

They walked down High Street, hand in hand, even though Tom didn't much like to hold hands and Charlotte could tell he felt this way. He let her keep her fingers curled around his palm, and occasionally his hand tightened around hers with a squeeze. Bringing them to a halt in front of the window of _Tomes and Scrolls_ , Tom asked, "Do you mind if we stop in here?"

"Of course not," Charlotte answered. She liked books, but Tom seemed to love them, as shown by the extensive amount of time he spent in the library and reading in the common room.

"Looking for anything in particular?" inquired the shopkeeper as they entered; he looked exactly like the shopkeeper you'd expect to find in a bookstore—elderly, bespectacled, giving off an air of knowledge.

"Just browsing," Tom told him. "Unless there's something you'd like to look for?" he asked Charlotte.

"No," she said, but gave the old man a smile, then wandered over to the Herbology section. There were a few other students in the shop, and Charlotte noticed at least one of them reacted to her and Tom's entrance. It was an older Ravenclaw girl, who looked away when Charlotte made eye contact with her. She returned to examining the books before her.

* * *

"After you've been here a number of times, there isn't much to do," Charlotte commented.

"Hmm." Tom nodded. He didn't think there was anything of interest there to begin with—the bookstore had even disappointed him. It was only because he needed Charlotte that night that he was there at all. In a matter of hours, a mudblood would meet their end at the gaze of the basilisk. But if anyone asked where Tom was at that time he would tell them he was with Charlotte; she would say it was true, and they would believe him. Yet one question crept forward in his mind: why was it necessary for reality to match his story? He had proven before that memories and thoughts were his to shape with spells, and this gave him control over others' perception of reality, the real events. So the reason he needed Charlotte— He could not consider it. He didn't let himself answer the question, and tried to forget it had been asked at all.

"Follow me," said Charlotte, taking him by the arm. Around a corner, there was a deserted but still fairly exposed, open area. Standing close to him, she leaned in for a kiss. He stood still, for a brief moment trapped in indecision. Then he put his hands on her shoulders, holding her away from him.

"I don't want people to see," he said as calmly as he could.

"No one's here," insisted Charlotte, smiling. "Besides, do you really care?"

"I _don't want_ people to see," he said again through gritted teeth. This was true; he didn't want to become known as a romantic person—although it might have been too late to prevent that—and kissing his 'girlfriend' publicly was a sure way to make people think things he didn't want them to. In addition to that, he was still angered by the thought of possibly having developed some emotion for Charlotte beyond what he had intended. He would not give those feelings greater opportunity to grow, take over, like some kind of mold or fungus.

Charlotte had given him some space, but she was still pathetically holding both of his hands in hers. He thought it was pathetic, but it worked to his advantage, so in a strange way he was glad of Charlotte's weakness. And was that weakness love? Did she love him? He hadn't considered this before—what it would mean if she loved him. It was unfamiliar; no one had loved him before. All he saw in how Charlotte acted towards him were ways of manipulating, exploiting and using her. Love didn't mean anything to him. And he much preferred the fear-induced tasks he forced others to carry out. These gave him a sense of power that love did not—knowing he could make others do what he wanted purely out of his own formidableness.

Next time there was a visit to Hogsmeade, Tom decided he would come up with some excuse not to go, because he didn't think he could take another day like this of aimlessly wandering around the town, wasting his time. That was more or less all they did that afternoon, until it was time to return to the castle. In the common room, having agreed to later meet on the seventh floor, they parted.

...

The sound of birds chirping greeted them as they opened the door. Tom shut it quickly. "That's strange," he muttered.

Charlotte, looking wide-eyed, asked, "Can you open it again? I want to see."

She must have been thinking about something and the room had changed itself to match her thoughts instead of his. He had no doubt he could take advantage of this, however, so he pulled the door open for them to enter.

It was a luscious garden, verdant and alive; along with the birds they had heard already, there was also the sound of flowing water somewhere.

Charlotte looked halfway between bliss and tears. So this must be—"Home," she whispered. "The garden of my home in France." Looking at Tom quizzically, she asked, "But how…? You couldn't have done this."

"You were thinking about this place, weren't you? The room must have picked up on that." He answered her somewhat vaguely, fully understanding how this had happened himself.

"Yes. I was thinking of it." She looked around in wonder. He would do his best to absorb every personal detail she was leaking out in this incident of self-exposure. But then Tom realized that she might try to return here, to visit this place and indulge her nostalgia, or her homesickness. He didn't want her to enter the Room of Requirement without him, however. It might prove necessary, he thought, to erase her memory of being there. But the mind was a tricky thing, and he didn't yet fully understand how to work magic on it perfectly; he thought it best to keep his modifications to a minimum. In his plan as it was currently, there was already a need to make her remember things differently to how they were to going to happen. That was fine, however; he wanted the practice. Charlotte had to make herself useful to him somehow, and this was one way he had found for her to do that.

She had moved through the garden and was standing in front of the source of the splashing sound—a small waterfall. Sitting down on the wall of rocks surrounding the pond, she let her hand fall into the water. "When I was a young child, I sometimes used to swim in here," she said with a laugh. "But our gardener hated that, so he put a few grindylows in it to stop me. Then you know what I did? I turned them into water lilies and went swimming anyway." She laughed again.

"You succeeded in that kind of transfiguration as a child?" he asked, shocked. He didn't think he could have so largely underestimated her power.

"Well, no, not in the way you're meaning. It was accidental. But it was still very rewarding."

He smiled at this and, taking a seat on the rocks as well, dipped his hand a few centimeters into the water. It was surprisingly warm. He wondered what Charlotte would do if he said 'fancy one more swim?'; the water wasn't very deep, not deep enough for them to swim in, but that could be fixed. He imagined the two of them undressed slipping into the pool. Then he realized what he was thinking and practically ran from the pond, rising with a leap that startled Charlotte. He headed for a tree that was in front of them, trying to look as though there was something extremely interesting about it—although he thought that was not likely to convince. Charlotte came over to him. Other times he would have immediately kissed her, as that served him well to divert her attention and prevent her from considering his other behaviors. But now of course he was not so quick to employ that method.

Strangely, she kissed him then, without asking any question. And because he had acted oddly too many times that day already, he didn't stop her. She got closer to him; he stood with his back to the tree.

"You did this to me once," she said. "Isn't it only fair we should switch places once too?" As she kissed him again, he realized Charlotte was taking control—and he couldn't have that. Tightly wrapping his arms around her, he returned her kisses fiercely. He pulled at her clothes. And then, he stopped thinking. Although he didn't actively choose to do this, he also did not reinstate his logic at that moment. Impulse governed his actions and passion seemed to justify them.

* * *

"Charlotte? Charlotte, you're falling asleep." Tom shook her gently. "I'm afraid it's gotten too late—or early, rather—for you to sleep here. We need to get back to the Dungeon. Come on." He lifted her up onto her feet. "I bet you don't even know what I was just talking to about," he sighed.

"You were saying something about… something about a colony of giants… somewhere."

"We were discussing…" She couldn't follow his explanation; she was extremely tired and her head felt clouded.

"I find it hard to believe we were _discussing_ anything at all. I can barely listen to you right now," she answered. Tom furrowed his brow.

"We were. You said that your father once had to work with the government there"— _there_ being whatever country he had mentioned and she had missed—"to stop the giants from starting avalanches."

This did sound familiar. "Switzerland," she said. "That was in Switzerland. I know you probably just said that, but I—"

"It's perfectly alright." He smiled.

As they were about to go their separate ways in the common room, the same order the students had been given once before was heard throughout the school. "All students will remain in their houses until further notice." This time Professor Dippet sounded even more concerned.

"We made it back just in time," Charlotte said in a whisper. She felt more alert now, having been startled by the announcement and becoming anxious to know what had happened, but not much more alert.

"We might as well stay in here," said Tom, putting his arm around her and guiding her over to one of the sofas.

"I suppose there's been another attack…"

"I wonder if it's the same as last time, or if it's something else—assuming there _has_ been a second attack, which does seem to be the case," he said. While he spoke, Charlotte wrapped her arms around Tom's arm closest to her, not really processing what he was saying. She was so tired that she didn't even jump when the other Slytherins started to appear in the room, and saw her there with Tom, her head leaning on his shoulder.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I hope you aren't bored of 'what does Tom think about love?' because I apparently am definitely not bored of exploring that. I feel like I may have written the same similar bits over and over again though; I hope you'll tell me if that is the case and it's getting redundant.

The incident with the giants that is referenced isn't really a reference. I'm pretty sure there was something mentioned in the books about giants in Lichtenstein being a problem when the International Confederation of Wizards was first founded. (The way I remember these facts, you'd think they were actual history, oh my goodness.) Anyway, I just threw Switzerland in there because it's next to Lichtenstein. And, yes, Charlotte's inability to process what Tom is saying, which consequently gives me reason to leave it out of the narrative, was definitely a convenient way I came up with to not have to come up with some wizarding history factoid.

Lastly, there's some ambiguity in the events towards the end of this chapter. That is done intentionally, but it will not be permanently unknown, as I intend to explain things further later on.

Okay one last thing. I _love_ reading your reviews, so please don't hesitate to comment. Constructive criticism is good too~


	18. Chapter 18

By early afternoon that very same day, Professor Runewood was already revived, thanks to Madame Soleil's potion. Tom was frustrated. What were the odds that both attacks would be thwarted by circumstance? A middle of the night pipe breakage had turned the corridor floor into a reflective, basilisk defense. Miraculously, however—or perhaps there was some kind of magic at work—she did not recall what had caused her petrification, the last thing she had seen as she walked down the hall.

The more pieces of the truth the rest of the school became aware of, the more difficult Tom knew it would be for him to remain calm and act like he had nothing to do with these events. He hated that he had to act so discreetly, always fearing the suspicion of others. Those who would disagree with his method and his motive had too much authority; he needed more power.

He wondered if there was anything he could do to prevent the Restorative Draught from being administered to the victims of the basilisk. If he had acted sooner, he might have been able to taint the potion with something, in which case Madame Soleil might be blamed—he was uncertain of whether or not that would end well, but it seemed like a worthwhile risk to take. However, at this point it didn't matter because Professor Runewood had already been treated. But recalling Madame Soleil had given him an idea. Her willingness to take risks with experimentation where a muggle-born was concerned could be used to incite hesitation in giving the potion to anyone else. He just had to figure out a way to alert the staff to this fact…

...

"I have to say, this time you _do_ look tired," Tom said. "But that can't be helped. You can't expect anything else after staying up all night."

"Mmmm," Charlotte answered nondescriptly.

"Talking with you then has given me a lot to think about." She could take that however she wanted. The important thing was 'talking', they had been talking; he didn't want her to _misremember_ that, and instead think that he had left for some time, during which she had fallen asleep.

"Is that so?" she asked, the sleepiness in her voice fading slightly as she sat up.

If people knew what an actor Tom was, he certainly could have been cast in one of Professor Beery's theatrical endeavors. "About the future," he said with a smile. Again, she could believe whatever she wanted about this statement.

"About us?"

Through a great effort, he managed not to let his smile falter. She could have understood him to be speaking about future careers, the future of the wizarding world—but she had to go with _them_. There was no _them_ , least of all in the future. But she couldn't know that. Not yet. He assumed that someday he would be able to cast aside all of the lies and force her to see him for what he truly was. She would hate it; it would cause her pain. The thought of this made an excitement surged through him. And also… something else. Something negative. A loss? His mind raced for an answer, a conclusion that made sense to him. "I always think about us," he said in the meantime.

He decided it must be his disappointment that Charlotte would certainly not see the value in his actions. She would be so preoccupied with her own suffering and her anger at him that she would fail to see the greatness standing before her. But if he could cause her all these unpleasant feelings, then clearly he had power over her, which was all he wanted. He suppressed any other explanation for the feeling he was having. And yet it was a hollowed out place that would ache with emptiness as its chance for fulfillment was thrown away.

"We still have two years of school left, but sometimes I wish it was less, so we could be nearer to maybe starting our lives together."

The more successfully he enchanted her, the more repulsed he was by her. Once again, a paradox. He quickly kissed her on the cheek because he could not fake a convincing smile at this point. "I want that too," he lied. Their hands were now clasped together and Charlotte, with her other hand, was reaching for the book again. Tom summoned it to him instead, and asked, "Are you sure you don't want to sleep?" He set the book down on the other side of him, away from Charlotte.

"I really have to study," she insisted without much energy.

"Study what?"

"Divination."

"Well I can see that, but what specifically? What've you learned?" He smirked.

"I don't know—that's why I need to study," she replied as forcefully as she could.

"That's why you need to sleep. Otherwise you'll have to read it again anyway."

Charlotte looked at him. "Maybe… If I can make it just a short nap."

"You can stay right here and read as soon as you wake up." He motioned to his arm, outstretched across the top of the couch cushions.

As the weight on his shoulder set in, so did the realization that he had no idea why he had made this request of her. What advantage did he have to gain by it? He considered getting up and leaving, telling her he had forgotten something he had to do. But he was tired too…

...

"I don't think you were supposed to fall asleep as well," Charlotte said, nudging Tom awake.

"Don't forget, I was awake all night too."

"Yes, but… We don't want anyone else working that out, do we?" She smiled.

Tom shrugged. "What are they going to do?"

"Tell everyone you two are the most _adorable_ couple in the whole school."

"Valeria! Where did you come from? I had no idea you were there!" Charlotte twisted around in surprise to look at her friend. Tom felt himself flush, not out of embarrassment, but rather out of anger.

"That'll be because of my shoes, enchanted to not make any noise. I'm just testing them out," she replied happily. Then her attention was caught by Tom. "Oh look, Charlotte, he's blushing," she giggled. Charlotte looked at him and smiled. This only exacerbated his bitter resentment.

His hand was clenched into a fist out of sight at his side. "I'm certain shoes like that already exist, Valeria," he said, ignoring what she said as best he could.

"Yes, but it's helpful for me to practice making them myself."

"Like artists copying the work of the masters in order to study," Charlotte said.

"Exactly!" agreed Valeria.

"I didn't know you had any interest in art," Tom said to Charlotte.

"I am. And more so since I found out about a group of wizards who have banded together to try to protect _muggle_ artwork." She said "muggle" in a questioning way, showing confusion about why wizards would go out of their way to do this for them, as Tom interpreted it.

"Good for them," said Valeria. "I think muggle artwork can be just as valuable as wizard artwork. Art isn't like technology or other things that magic can objectively improve. We can still appreciate muggle art, don't you agree?"

"We have some muggle paintings in our house actually," answered Charlotte. "In my father's study there are two small ones. My mother doesn't understand why he, or any wizard, would want paintings done by muggles, but she's given up complaining about it, so long as he keeps them where she doesn't have to see them much."

"I think she's right," said Tom. "I would much prefer a wizard's artwork to decorate the walls of my home."

"Well _I_ can see the appeal of non-magical paintings," Valeria said. "Pictures that can hear you and talk to each other are rather creepy sometimes." Tom had to agree with her on this point. He had certainly encountered difficulties because of the inhabitants of frames around Hogwarts; it made going unnoticed and doing illicit things much more of a challenge.

"That makes sense," Charlotte laughed. "But they can be very useful too."

"Oh definitely, I won't deny that," said Valeria. "But I meant to ask, before we started talking about the pros and cons of muggle artwork, what exactly are these wizards protecting it from?"

"The Nazis. They steal art, burn art, all in the name of their ideals. Some wizards in Germany, and other countries near it, thought it was important to keep this from happening and decided to do something about it, in ways that only they, as wizards, could."

"Those Nazis, they're a lot like Grindelwald, aren't they?" Valeria pondered. "They want everyone to be a certain way, and they want to get rid of everyone else." She remained in visible despair for a moment, and then launched herself into forced cheer, saying "Makes me glad I'm not German, anyway."

* * *

Tom had gone off somewhere after dinner, probably the library, so Charlotte was walking back to the common room with Valeria.

"Have you decided what career you're going to tell Professor Slughorn you're interested in when you have your meeting?" Valeria asked. All day, she had been making an effort to act like things were normal, as though there had not just been a second attack, and this time on a teacher.

Charlotte shook her head. "I know that I like Herbology, but that's so similar to what my mother does, you know?" She paused briefly before saying, smilingly, "I'm sure you know what job you're going to be pursuing, of course."

"We hardly even need to have a meeting for me. He's well aware." Her grin turned to a frown as she paused before saying, "But you really have no real idea of what you want to do with your life?" Charlotte shook her head. "I can't imagine that!" cried Valeria. "I think about my life after school so much it feels like I'm already living it."

"In a way, you are. Already you're designing things and marketing things…"

Valeria was still confused about Charlotte's situation. "You're a Slytherin," she said. "We're ambitious. We know what we want, and we go after it."

"I guess not always."

"Hm. Well, you've still got two years, I suppose."

"At Beauxbatons, I would have had another year. Their equivalent of the OWLs takes place in sixth year." Charlotte had no real reason for saying this; it was simply a fact that came to mind.

"Are you homesick again?" Valeria asked slowly.

"No, I— Maybe a little," she admitted quietly. "But I can't have both, as much as I wish I could. I'm happy here, so it's fine." As she said this, however, her thoughts drifted back to the previous night, spent in the garden that was so familiar, so dear to her. She had to see it again.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Once again, I apologize for the delayed update.

I did not invent Professor Beery, the one with an interest in theater. I think he's talked about in one of the ebooks published through Pottermore. I read about him on the HP wiki (because I'm obsessed and actually do research for this).


	19. Chapter 19

The following day, Monday, classes resumed as normal. Charlotte wondered whether they would have Charms that day and whether Professor Runewood would be there. She was cured of her petrification, but that didn't necessarily mean she was recovered. One rumor around the castle said that she was leaving for good. Breakfast proved she hadn't left yet—if there was any truth at all to this rumor—as she was sitting in her place at the staff table.

Charlotte sat down next to Tom. "I want to ask you something."

"What is it?"

She glanced around him to see if anyone would overhear. Lestrange was a bit too close for comfort; she hadn't noticed he was there before. Without knowing precisely why, Charlotte felt uneasy around him, even though he was Tom's friend. Deciding to leave her real question until later, she changed her tone when she spoke—Tom would likely understand she had something else to say. "It's surprising that I've never asked this before, but what do you want to do after you graduate Hogwarts?" she asked him, holding the same conversation she and Valeria had had the previous day.

He stayed silent for a while, chewing some bacon while he thought. He swallowed. "I want to do as well as I can in school and learn everything available to me, then see where I can go post-graduation. I'm not interested in focusing on one particular thing."

"Oh, I see. That makes a lot of sense."

"What have you been thinking of doing?"

"I don't know… Although, what you described sounds like a smart way to go about it. To leave yourself open for various options."

He gave a small smile. "Do you think you could be some kind of politician, like your father?"

"Is it possible? Yes. Would I want to be? I'm not sure. I'm more inclined to follow in my mother's footsteps and work with plants, but I don't want to do exactly what she does. Do you think I could have a job like my father's?"

"I don't know very much about what he does. Perhaps you should consult with Oliver, seeing as he's more familiar with that line of work."

This was a surprising suggestion from him. "That didn't sound sarcastic, but was it really sincere? You want me to talk to Oliver?"

"Why not?" Tom shrugged. "Anyway, he's about to graduate and so of course he's given it more thought, what comes next after school. I think it would be a good idea for you to get some advice from him."

Charlotte couldn't sense any bitterness in his tone, so she assumed he was being genuine. "I'll do that," she said, very pleased that he had shown no sign of jealousy in this instance. She looked over at Lestrange again, still there.

"Lestrange," said Tom, turning to his right. "Are you finished eating? Do you think you could take care of that thing we were talking about earlier?"

"I'd love to," the boy answered, standing up to leave despite his half full plate. He grinned and it sent a shiver down Charlotte's spine. There was definitely something unnerving about him. Underlying that smile was something more sinister. She would have mentioned it to Tom if she didn't already have something she wanted to discuss.

"The room," she said. "I want to know how to go back to _mon jardin_."

"We can visit it again sometime, certainly," he replied.

"By myself," she clarified. "I'd like to be there again with you too, of course, but it would be nice to be able to spend time there whenever I wanted."

"We'll talk about it later." He looked quickly at her, and then said, "Later, I'll show you how." She smiled.

* * *

It was not a promise; it was an outright lie. He would make her forget. The garden would cease to exist at Hogwarts. He would have to prevent her from transforming the room into it again if he could. And he would certainly be glad to never see that place again. Too frequently in the past twelve hours had he recalled images of that night, when he had unconsciously abandoned reason and slept with Charlotte again. What exasperated him was the fact that he had not made a deliberate choice in that instance. If he wanted to sleep with Charlotte, fine; that wasn't the problem. To do so without thinking it through—he detested an action like that. It was foolish. Again, she had brought out the impulsivity in him, which he was not used to having to tame. He had betrayed himself then as he had by the lake. What did it mean? Should he put an end to it? Of course he ought to, to the careless actions, but how?

He needed to make a deliberate decision about her, whether he would give up or press on. He didn't like the idea of giving up, no matter what it concerned. Because of this, he was inclined to continue things with Charlotte, challenging himself to constantly maintain the absence of his feelings for her. He didn't mind the challenge—that is, he was uncomfortable with the idea that he found himself challenged by not letting his feelings for turn into something, but he was willing to take it on and looked forward to overcoming it.

* * *

Charms turned out not to be cancelled and, as Charlotte waited in her seat next to Tom in the Charms classroom, they all heard the familiar voice of Professor Runewood from just outside the door, telling some first years they'd best not be late to their next class.

She entered the room with comportment very different than she had had after the previous attack. Somehow, having faced the danger herself, she had gained a confidence, which showed in her walk up to the front of the room. "Your OWL examinations will be happening before you know it, so I think some revision [review] would be beneficial today."

They were copying various wand movements as she demonstrated them. It felt like their first lesson learning them, only without the novelty, and thus lacking in any engaging element whatsoever. Thankfully, they did not carry on with that tedious exercise for much longer; Professor Runewood had plenty of other ways to practice, which were of varying degrees of uninteresting to Charlotte. When it came to class, she really only wanted to learn new things; she could study on her own time. Tom looked even more miserably bored than she felt, but every once in a while she noticed him go through a reset, looking interested and engaged until his boredom reasserted itself.

There was a great deal more of lessons like this in all of their classes, reviewing topics and spells from as far back as first year. Yet the month of April passed swiftly, they were so burdened with studying in all their free time.

One thing did change over the course of the month, however. Tom had become more distant with Charlotte. When she noticed it, she attributed it to the stress of their upcoming exams. Her own stress had kept her from recognizing it sooner. At first, he had been a voice of encouragement whenever she needed it, but lately all she got was silence.

* * *

"I should be going," Charlotte said, rising from the table in the library where she had been sitting with Tom.

It looked cloudy outside, but enough afternoon light filtered in through the window to catch in the waves of her hair. Tom noticed this as he glanced up. "I hope Professor Slughorn can give you some good advice," he said to her.

"Thanks. I do too."

Charlotte left for her appointment and Tom, briefly watching her go, wished she would simply disappear from his life in the same way. His eyes stayed on her longer than he would have liked. He turned back to his book, but was unable to focus. Throughout the past month he had changed how he was with Charlotte, limiting his interaction with her; it wasn't his preferred course of action, but it served its purpose well. He couldn't say that he had disciplined himself not to act so rashly, but he had prevented himself from acting on those impulses. Still, he had not solved the problem of his feelings for Charlotte.

He knew without a doubt now that he had feelings for her. What those feelings were, he could not identify. What mattered to him was that they did not include love. He asked himself whether he could allow Charlotte to suffer if he had to, whether he could sacrifice her in order to achieve his goals. He came to the conclusion that he could prioritize his own objectives over anything to do with Charlotte, and decided he would regularly test himself with this.

* * *

Charlotte knocked on the door of Professor Slughorn's office. "Come in, come in," he called as the door swung open. "Have a seat, have a toffee," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him and a bowl on the table between them. "So Miss Soleil, where do you see yourself in five or ten years?"

With Tom, in a house with a magnificent garden, maybe in France—but that wasn't what he wanted to know.

"I think I… Well I want to do something that makes me successful, something that's useful, something I enjoy, and something that makes use of my abilities."

"Don't we all," chuckled Professor Slughorn.

"The truth is, I don't know. I'm not sure about any career choice."

"You have the skills to take up your mother's unusual trade, make it a family business," he said. The corners of her mouth tensed inward lessening her smile.

"I forgot to mention I also don't want to do exactly what either of my parents does." She smiled again. "You're not the first to suggest that. And I considered it."

"May I ask why it doesn't appeal to you?"

Again, she wasn't sure. "It just seems so… predictable. As though I'm not making the choice for myself." Professor Slughorn nodded slowly and she continued. "Tom and I were talking about this a while ago. He said that he wanted to study everything, not simply focus on something specific, so that he can be well prepared for anything he ends up wanting to do. I thought that was a good idea. But," she frowned, "I don't want to take Muggle Studies anymore."

Slughorn laughed. Yet suddenly she was struck by a memory, thinking about Muggle Studies, she recalled another conversation she had had with Tom. She was surprised she the idea had never occurred to her before. "There is something. I have this sense that the wizarding world could benefit from a better understanding of muggle innovation."

"Hmm." Slughorn leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin. "That's very interesting. But you don't want to take Muggle Studies anymore?"

"Right. I don't think the class is interesting at all, at least, not enough to be worth my time. And I can't say that it will help me with what I want to do. Which is…" she sighed, "I'm still not exactly certain."

"That's perfectly alright. The only thing you need to have an idea of at the moment is which classes you would like to continue with, and it sounds like you have that sorted. Two more years at Hogwarts should help you have the time to figure out the rest."

"You're right," she smiled. It was something of a relief to hear this from him. The certainty Valeria always expressed about her future made Charlotte even more uncertain. She simply did not feel that level of passion for anything in the way that her friend did; it seemed like she hadn't found what she was meant to do yet. But maybe this new idea, about blending magical and non-magical thinking—maybe that would take her somewhere.


	20. Chapter 20

Having left Professor Slughorn's office in a cheery mood, Charlotte smiled to herself as she returned to Tom in the library. The books around him had shifted places and more rolls of parchment were unfurled in front of him, which he didn't look up from until she sat down beside him and started speaking.

"I realized something that I'm interested in. Maybe enough to make a career out of it."

"Go on." He was tapping his fingers rhythmically one after the other against the table, which might have indicated impatience, but Charlotte told herself it was probably nothing more than an unconscious habit.

"Do you remember that conversation we had when I was working on that essay for Muggle Studies? I told you about how I wanted to see wizards be more accepting of advancement?" she asked.

His smile faded and he looked at her with questioning eyes and a face showing disagreement. Charlotte was disappointed he wasn't enthusiastic, but she didn't let his judgmental reaction alter _her_ enthusiasm. "I remember it," he said.

"I want to find some way to put that interest to use.

"I think you'd have trouble presenting that idea to the wizarding world and getting any great positive response." Then, with concern in his voice, he added, "And it might even make you a target for Grindelwald."

"No. No, it wouldn't," she objected, without giving it any proper thought. She didn't want to think about that.

Tom shrugged. "I just want you to consider whether you're passionate enough about it to put yourself in danger."

She sighed and let herself fall against the back of her seat, folding her arms. "Well that lasted all of five minutes." She couldn't answer his question.

"I'm sorry," he answered. "I just don't know that it's… realistic."

"Thanks for being honest," she said, her gratitude genuine and not sarcastic.

He gradually cracked a smiled. "Of course."

"But Professor Slughorn didn't say anything to discourage me." She tried again to cast a positive light on her idea.

"What _did_ he say?"

"He said that I still have plenty of time to make up my mind because right now I just need to be sure of which classes I'll continue taking."

"Then maybe he thinks he won't have to talk you out of it if you give it time."

"You certainly seem to be making strides towards that end." It annoyed her that he was being so negative, even if he called it realism. Shouldn't he be supportive?

Tom didn't say anything for a while. "I don't want you to make a foolish choice." There was a coldness in the way he said this that felt like more than an absence of warmth; something else lay beneath it.

"What's on your mind? Is something bothering you?" Charlotte asked him, looking for the reason behind this iciness.

"I simply meant what I said. If it's a bad idea, I don't want you to carry on with it."

" _If_? Really? It sounds as though you've already made your mind up about it."

He didn't answer.

"Telephones," she said. "What's our equivalent? Sending a patronus, maybe? Hardly an equivalent." She was determined to get some agreement out of him.

"You can send a patronus from anywhere." It wasn't going to be easy.

"Telephones are two-way communication."

"Two-way mirrors."

"Those aren't that common. And, you know, using telephones would help us blend in."

"Why do you think we should want to hide?" Charlotte looked at him confusedly. "I only mean, wouldn't it be so much better if we didn't have to hide anymore?"

"No, the muggles would be after us."

"I said _if we didn't have to hide anymore_. If there was nothing they could do."

"Do you think we'll live harmoniously with muggles someday?" she asked skeptically. A look came over Tom's face like he could have been sick.

"I most certainly did not say that."

"No, that's true. What you said sounded more like…"

"Like what?" he prompted.

"A little bit, well, a little bit Grindelwaldian," she whispered. That was not an ideology that anyone, aside from Grindelwald's own supporters, was keen to be the least bit associated with, hence her hesitation. And it utterly frightened her. She knew what people who took on that view could become—unrecognizable to anyone who knew them.

She was relieved, then, when Tom responded relatively calmly, disputing this. "That's not what it was either. According to Grindelwald, his ideals are in favor of a greater good, which includes muggles—their own greater good. I don't believe that."

"That what Grindelwald is doing is for the good of the muggles, too? I'm not sure I believe that either."

He shook his head. "No. I don't believe that we should be concerned with what's good for the muggles. The _muggles_ can worry about what's good for them." After a pause, he started again suddenly, "Anyway, I thought you'd left that idea behind, wanting to _blend in_ with the muggles, I mean."

"I thought I had…" She had thought the fear that drove her to this was gone, the fear of losing her magical world. Tom didn't look very sympathetic. But she didn't want to be pitied, anyway; that would have made her feel weak and childish, like the fear itself, persisting from her younger years.

She didn't want to be some _muggle-lover_. That wasn't her. She couldn't be.

"People might think you're a muggle-lover if you carry on like this."

"No! I'm not. And people had better not assume that I am—because they'd be wrong." She spoke with redundancy partly to convince herself. The beginnings of a smile on Tom's face were visible to her as he leaned over to kiss her cheek, and she felt his grinning mouth against her skin before the puckering of his lips.

In her haste to contest what he said, it wasn't until after she made her dispute that she questioned whether she had spoken aloud before. Tom had responded like he knew what she was thinking, but she was fairly certain the thought had stayed in her mind.

"I know that you're not," he said softly as he pulled away. She smiled back at him, feeling eased by this. But her smile faltered.

He looked at her a moment before asking, "Still something's wrong?" Then he stopped her as she opened her mouth. "No, wait. We talked about Grindelwald. That's what's on your mind, isn't it?"

"Yes, but not simply Grindelwald," she said slowly. "The fact that you seem to be so in tune with him..."

He turned in his seat to face her fully. "I will _never_ join Grindelwald. You don't have to fear that." He could say that now, but someday they might become empty words. Charlotte wasn't ready to believe him on that alone.

Without raising her voice too much for the library, she replied, "The things you just said? About muggles and wizards? They're dangerous words to me. You _cannot_ speak like that—please don't."

"It may sound as if I agree with Grindelwald, but I promise you, I don't; he and I are not... in tune, as you say. I have no interest in joining his ranks." There was a certain degree of disdain in his voice, which partly lessened Charlotte's doubt, but not enough for her to let it go. She didn't say anything more because she couldn't put into words what she feared, not without sounding ridiculous, she thought. Tom was struggling with something as well. She could tell from looking at him that he was on the verge of saying something.

"Do you really think I would betray you like that, Charlotte?"

"It's not that I think you would, but that Grindelwald could be capable of persuading you—"

"No." Tom spoke forcefully. "I would never hurt you like that. Do you think I don't love you at all?" His voice tapered off into a whisper. An intense meeting of their eyes went on for sometime before Tom said, "Grindelwald would never be able to convince me that I love you any less, not a bit."

Charlotte glanced down, a bit embarrassed that she hadn't thought of this. Of course, if he loved her...

She reached for his hand with a smile.

* * *

The Chamber of Secrets was cavernous room in which the hissing and slithering of the basilisk echoed remarkably. Tom stood leaning against the wall, not bothered by the coldness of the stone; he was too busy thinking about the history and the greatness of the place he was in. And it was a secret only he knew—at least, out of anyone else at Hogwarts. The staff only guessed that the Chamber might exist, and often hoped to convince others that it didn't. It scared them. That such a thing as a single room, the very idea of it, could frighten people… Tom loved it. It was, of course, the idea of everything else that went with the room that scared them too: the monster, the mission of purging the school of muggle-borns. But just to whisper "The Chamber of Secrets" could draw out a certain uneasiness, a tenseness, in everyone who heard.

He'd finally arrived at this place in his mind, but it had not been so when he first entered the Chamber. These thoughts had needed to suffocate that other, the despicable words that had passed from his lips earlier that day—and not despicable in the way that he liked; no, not an outsider's idea of despicable. _Do you think I don't love you at all? ..._ She should, but she was too foolish to guess at it.

He'd been so caught up in denying that he could become a supporter of Grindelwald, he had inadvertently gone to great lengths to reassure Charlotte she had nothing to fear from him. Unable to provide her with the truth—that he wanted to rise above Grindelwald as a feared dark wizard—he attempted a different line of persuasion. There had been a struggle within himself to determine whether he should. Not that he minded lying to Charlotte at all, but lying to her in a way that forced him to proclaim his ardent love for her? Part of him, at least, was very resistant to that. The part of him that won out, however, was of the opinion that he _needed_ to remove Charlotte's doubts. It seemed utterly necessary, even though it was without reason.

At least he could find a reason for his vehement opposition to some relation between himself and Grindelwald being drawn. By now the school had realized that someone was acting as the Heir of Slytherin and had opened the Chamber again and people still tried to link Grindelwald to it somehow; just that morning he had overheard some Ravenclaws coming up with theories about Grindelwald having recruited the Heir, implying they were working in tandem. It could almost be amusing, if it didn't make him so angry. He had so wanted to tell them they were wrong. He would have told them the Heir was very much independent, and they would one day have more to fear from him than from Grindelwald. Yes, Tom— _Lord Voldemort_ —had made it his ambition to become the most feared dark wizard of all time, and to remain so _forever._

Forever. Eternity. Infinitely. These words had so much power to them. His favorite, however, was _immortal_. Everyone else was mortal, but he would not be. Death would mean nothing to him. Death would be unable to take him.

The information he had sought for so long had been well-hidden. Tom gathered that it scared most wizards; he imagined it was because they knew if someone were to make themselves immortal, then their strength and power would overshadow that of every other wizard. The process of creating a horcrux frightened most as well. But to Tom it was logical to endure that pain in order to make the greatest triumph—over death. And after all, why should they succumb to mortality when the means to overcome it was within their power?

The basilisk approached him, speaking. " _Ssspider… A great spider residessss in the castle. I feel it, smell itss fear… But it will not leave…_ "

" _Why should I care about some spider?_ " Tom asked the snake.

" _They never sstay in our presence. Why does thisss one? I want it to leave!"_ The serpent reared up. It would have been terrifying to someone not capable of controlling it. Tom stood his ground; it had to obey his commands. Despite this, however, it sometimes liked to boast of its age, how many generations of Heirs it had seen, how it had known Salazar Slytherin himself. These were all things worthy of glory, but Tom still disliked the way the basilisk flaunted them.

He thought about why there might be a spider in the castle that did not give in to its deep instinctual need to flee from the basilisk. Even a very large spider, as the basilisk described this one to be, would feel threatened. It might be trapped. Maybe someone was keeping it—although it seemed absurd to think that anyone would want to keep a spider like that for a pet. Then a name came to mind. _Rubeus Hagrid_ , a third-year Gryffindor. He was certainly the type to do such a thing. Tom decided he would look into it, if only to prove himself right, and not for the snake's benefit.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Often when I write conversations, I'm just in a hurry to get all of my thoughts down, and it becomes strictly dialogue with very little or no description in between. I try to go back and fill it in a bit, but it doesn't always work out like that. For instance, in this chapter, most of the first half is written like this. I wonder if this is okay. Too much commentary can make it harder to follow the conversation, but I feel like lacking any at all is also a drawback. What do you think about this and how it came across in this chapter? (Or any previous chapters, if you remember any specifically, or want to look back; I know I've done this with past dialogues too).

As you see in this chapter, Charlotte has conflicted feelings about muggles and muggle things. While writing this, I remembered the scene with Henry Sprott in DADA (chapter 6). I didn't write any reaction for Charlotte there, but I realize now she should have had one, so I added it. It's just a little bit, around 50 words. I'm in the processes of working out Charlotte's views on these things, which I probably should have done earlier, but I didn't realize it could be so much a part of her character until recently. When she has her reaction to the thought of being called a "muggle-lover", and I don't explain much why she hates this, I've left it out intentionally, because she doesn't know exactly why; she doesn't think about why, only that she is used to having an aversion to that idea.

I realized the basilisk totally has the potential to be its own character. It isn't just some beast who follows the Heir's commands; it has its own history, and I tried to show a little bit of what I think it would be like. Expect more of that later!~

Second thing about the basilisk: I'm uncertain about pronouns for it/him/her. See, in the book, the basilisk is female. In the movie, it has a masculine voice. I think that the voice in the movie is more memorable, so it's more likely that people will think of it as male,—myself included—but I prefer to go by the books. So I ignored both and just went with "it". I will most likely return to this later and change it.


	21. Chapter 21

A week had passed since Charlotte met with Professor Slughorn (she was no closer to making her mind up about her future career) and it was Valeria's turn today. They were sitting at lunch when Valeria suddenly laughed, staring at something behind Charlotte. "Look at that."

Charlotte turned to see the very tall, very broad Rubeus Hagrid scurrying—if such a word could be used to describe the movement of a half-giant—out of the Great Hall, practically leaving a trail of food, as several chicken legs fell from his patched overcoat. He wore it over his school robes likely for the specific purpose of pocketing large amounts of food; what the food was for, they could not surmise.

"I wonder what he thinks he's doing," Valeria said. "Anyway, he could use some bigger pockets, maybe with undetectable extension charms on them. Too bad that's not legal. A whole avenue of clothing modification I can never pursue," she sighed.

"Technically it's allowed if sanctioned by the Ministry." Tom scooted down the bench to join them, next to Charlotte.

"Oh yes, just who I want to work for—the non-existent Ministry Department of Fashion. Instead I could charm school trunks for a living. What a dream." Tom didn't seem to mind her sarcasm. He had taken a drink of pumpkin juice, blocking much of his face from view. A vaguely amused smile was on his lips when he lowered the goblet. Valeria, much to Charlotte's relief—and Tom's too, she imagined—had become accustomed to the presence of her former crush, and didn't behave too differently for it. Her only embarrassing behavior was directly towards them as a couple, but Charlotte had come to find it endearing, while Tom tolerated it at least.

"Do you know anything about that boy?" Tom asked, looking to Valeria. He said _boy_ with some hesitation; Hagrid was only half-human after all. "Have you heard the rumors about him?" Of course Tom knew that she was one to be aware of this sort of talk.

"He's a younger student and a Gryffindor, so I haven't heard that much…" she shrugged. "But I mean everyone knows that he has a penchant for creatures of a, well, of an unusual variety."

"The kinds that _normal_ people find repulsive, frightening, and dangerous," Tom nodded.

"Yes, yes, and yes," replied Valeria. "Ugh." She squirmed in mimicry of a shudder at the thought of the beasts.

"I heard he was raising werewolf cubs under his bed. Who knows what else he might have. I imagine he's feeding something he's got locked up someplace." Tom didn't hide the disdain he clearly felt for Hagrid. Charlotte wanted to ask him about it, but Valeria was already answering him.

"Who told you about the werewolf cubs?" she asked with skepticism.

"I just overheard it; I don't know who said it."

"Well whoever it was, they were making a joke out of somebody. Werewolves don't _have_ cubs; that's not how it works," she replied smugly.

"No, they can." She frowned as Tom unhesitatingly reduced her confidence. "It's uncommon, but if, during a full moon, a male and a female werewolf mate while transformed, they could produce offspring that don't turn back into humans."

"Well I'm sorry I don't have our Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook memorized." He _had_ sounded rather like a talking textbook. "But I'd like to see you enchant a gown the way I did at Christmas." Valeria raised her chin the same way she was trying to elevate her pride.

"I might be able to, but I'll let that be your talent." Valeria had looked away sharply when he didn't immediately concede to her, so she didn't see what Charlotte saw—the unfriendly look on his face, even as he allowed Valeria her victory. She wanted to confront him about it, but not in front of Valeria, when it might hurt her. She made a mental note to bring it up later. She could ask him about Rubeus Hagrid too. These things she put off talking about did seem to be piling up…

Valeria had turned back to them with a smile, then began on a different subject.

"One thing I'm not sure about is whether I want to try to go to L'institution Lavallière, you know, the fashion school, what with Paris being in the trouble it's in right now, I'm not sure I want to be there."

"Well the German Occupation can't last forever…" This was the best Charlotte could offer; thinking about her native country made her almost despondent.

"And _I_ won't _live_ forever," said Valeria in frustration. Tom sat up straighter; his hand made a fist and went up in front of his mouth so he could lean on it, at t the same time turning slightly away from them. "I'm not too keen on simply waiting it out, but I don't see what choice I have…" Valeria said, to herself at this point, because Charlotte was preoccupied with Tom.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked him, merely in a curious way, not unkindly.

Charlotte uneasiness grew as the pause before he spoke lengthened. "Nothing," he eventually answered. "Nothing's wrong. Nothing is wrong at all." Indeed, he did have a look like that was true. He looked pleased about something. A bit deviously pleased. It reminded her of that time with Lestrange—something else she wanted to talk to him about.

"Can we go to the room later, to talk?" she asked him quietly. "It's the only place we can really be alone."

He thought for a moment before nodding. They agreed on a time that evening, before the fifth year curfew at nine o'clock.

...

Tom was waiting by the door, as he usually was, when Charlotte arrived on that corridor of the seventh floor. The door was small, and yet imposing. It looked like a creation of Slytherin himself. On top of narrow ridges that crossed the door diagonally, four snakes made up a simple design, yet the carvings were so detailed—that was what gave it its magnificence. Tom reached for the handle, which stuck out from the head of the snake that curved around the arch of the door, and when Charlotte steped into the room, she felt a faint disappointment, although she didn't know why. Everything looked the same as it had every other time. Tom shut the door behind them and came to stand in front of her.

"So. You wanted to talk?" He asked as though he didn't quite believe her motives. More than "not quite", in fact; it seemed he expected her to have something else in mind. He came closer to her, putting one hand on her waist.

"Yes," she answered with determination. "There are several things I want to get off my chest."

He smirked and it made her realize she had, without meaning to, just given him an opportunity to try to draw out their desire further; she had a very good idea of what he would say next.

"There are," he glanced down, "at least a couple things I'd like to get off your chest too." His free hand seemed to float down, over her breast, barely touching, until it was on her waist evenly with the other. One kiss, she decided. She pressed her lips to his briefly, kissing him until she felt a button come open on her blouse, which she found, as she looked down, to be the third one; the top two had been undone without her noticing, thanks to magic. Looking down at her cleavage, she moved her hand from where it rested on Tom's chest to cover her own. He lowered his face towards hers. "It's not as if I haven't seen it before," he said, caressing her, giving the side of her blouse a small tug, revealing more of her skin.

She stepped back, out of his reach. "Of course." She turned away from him and began fastening the buttons. "It's that that isn't why we're here." She looked over her shoulder at him. "Anyway, that's not why _I'm_ here. So it's not why you're here." She turned back while she was doing up the last button.

He came towards her and stood very close, leaving only about a palm's breadth between them. "How can you tell me why I'm here?" Every word was spoken with force. The way he could speak so slowly gave him the time to infuse each part with— was it scorn?

"Because if I say no, then it's not happening." She had tried to muster force equal to what Tom had spoken with; she didn't think she succeeded, but she certainly meant what she said.

Without realizing it, she had closed the gap between them. "But what if you're sending mixed messages," he said, putting his hand on her upper arm, alerting her to the fact that she had put her arms around him, both hands now resting on his back. Most everything about her present position implied that she wanted to hold him close. It must have been habit. Or impulse.

She undid all of her unconscious movements, pulling away and taking several steps back. "There." She pointed off to the side behind him at a couch. "Go sit over there."

He stared at her, then at the couch, and for a moment she thought he was going to refuse, although she couldn't understand why he wouldn't simply do as she said. He looked back at her with a smile and gestured towards the seat. "After you." She treated him to the same stubbornness, not immediately moving, then sighing as she went over to sit. He followed her, and would have sat right beside her, touching her in some way, if she hadn't have stopped him.

"There's plenty of room," she motioned to the other end of the sofa, "Over there." Again, he didn't move. He was leaning over her slightly, with his hand on the back of the sofa supporting him; he was studying her. She turned her face away from him. "It's not a conversation I feel we can have while tangled in each other's arms." While she spoke, she looked puzzledly at his hand, noticing how tense it was, the paleness around his knuckles showing his grip was tighter than it needed to be. Finally, he stood up and moved to sit where she had told him to.

"So. What did you want to talk about?"

"A few different things. I've always missed the chance to say anything, until I arranged this. They're things that concern me, a little bit, about you…"

He leaned towards her and reached out, but only took her hand. "Charlotte, I don't mean to do anything that makes you uncomfortable," he said with a degree of sincerity that permeated her heart.

In that case, however, she wondered how he would describe what transpired since they got to the room, but said, "Good. Then listen." She considered making him let go of her hand, but that seemed unnecessary and besides, it felt nice. "Today, just before I asked if we could talk, I got the sense that you harbor some dislike for Val."

"Am I ever rude to her?"

"No, not exactly rude."

"Right. I'm always polite, at the very _least_. In fact, if anyone was rude today, it was her."

"Sometimes that's how she talks; it isn't the same as rudeness," Charlotte quickly defended her friend.

"Well, do I have to like her just because she's your friend?" She couldn't simply say yes to that. "You told me I couldn't make demands about who you should, or should not, be friends with. Likewise, you can't dictate that I must be _friends_ with Valeria." He was making sense, but she still wasn't satisfied. She was searching for what she wanted to say to get her point across, when he said, "But if I ever do anything like that again with regard to Valeria, please tell me."

"Certainly." She smiled. That was reasonable of him.

"What about… other people?" While bringing up Lestrange would likely get the same response as their conversation about Valeria, she could still ask about Rubeus.

"Other people?"

"You didn't at all hide the fact that you don't think very highly of Rubeus Hagrid."

He snorted. "That's true. But do _you_ like him?"

"I don't think I _dislike_ him."

"You feel fine about the fact that he takes in dangerous magical creatures and brings them into the castle? Do you feel safe knowing that?"

"I haven't heard much about that, and there haven't been any—" She had been about to say _attacks_ , but that definitely wasn't true. "…any attacks that he's been blamed or punished for…" She now wondered if the half-giant could have anything to do with the mysterious petrifications.

Tom seemed to be distracted, thinking deeply about something. When he came out of his own thoughts and spoke, Charlotte couldn't follow why he was saying what he did. "Giants are brutes, literally. They're unintelligent. And their kind should not be mixed with magical blood."

The last part made a bit of sense, felt less non-sequitur. "So it's about some kind of purity?" She wasn't sure she fully agreed with this, but at least she understood his feelings.

"Yes."

Before he could say anything more, she interjected, "But he can't do anything about who, or what, he is. It isn't as if it's his _fault_."

"He's an _abomination_. Something that never should have happened. If I were to treat him like any other person, would people not get the wrong idea about that kind of creature? I have to despise him, and we all should, so we can stop the world from making a mistake like that again." There was logic in what he was saying, but she couldn't say she was convinced.

"You use some strong words." She felt that the way he had said _abomination_ and _despise_ would stick with her; it frightened her a little—and not the idea of Hagrid, but Tom's vehemence towards him and those like him.

"You never answered whether you felt safe, knowing he and whatever he lets in are in the castle. Do you?"

"I'd be lying if I said it didn't worry me."

"So that's it. You feel the same as I do."

"I wouldn't say that."

They sat in silence for a while, until Tom asked, "Is that all you wanted to talk about?"

Charlotte nodded, still not breaking her silence. Tom was wonderful, but… how he had just spoken… It was just once though. Well, there _had_ been other times when he had shown hints of this kind of thought. But he had never done anything to _harm_ Hagrid, or anyone else…

He moved over on the couch near to her, resting his hand on her shoulder. "Is this okay?"

She smiled a little. "Yes," she said softly.

He brought his other arm around and gently pulled her towards him. "Are you alright? Please tell me," he whispered.

It was as though she forgot everything she had just been thinking and feeling about him, all of it replaced by the delightful sensation of his embrace. And his kindness in caring about how she felt. "Everything's fine." As she said it out loud, she was able to convince herself it was true. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

"If you say so."

" _C'est vrai_. That means 'it's true'."

"I'm glad," he said. She rested there, filling herself up with the comfort of being in his arms. Then he asked, "Do you want to stay here? It's already late. And we can just sleep, if that's what you want."

"Just to sleep would be nice for a change. Not that I don't enjoy when we… sleep less, but—"

"I get it." They sat there a little while longer before going to bed.

* * *

Once again, Tom lay awake while Charlotte slept beside him. At least this time he didn't have images of sex chasing away his sanity. Or maybe he did wish he had some lascivious memories to distract from the invasion of personal space he felt with Charlotte in the bed he was trying to sleep in. He found it hard to ignore her presence; he would rather have been alone.

Yet even though that was an uncomfortable feeling, if he thought about it it wasn't as unwelcome as feeling pleased that Charlotte was there with him. He had almost felt something like that when they, before going to bed, had been—he made a face— _cuddling_. It was truly an awful word. She had been cuddling; he had not, not really. Still, there had been an odd peacefulness he felt, and he suspected it might have had something to do with Charlotte, although he hoped he was wrong. But mostly, as he sat there, he had been thinking about something else.

Charlotte had given him an idea. No—Charlotte had said something, which made him think of an idea that he probably would have come up with anyway… Rubeus Hagrid and his strange creatures could viably take the blame for the attacks Tom had been responsible for. He had been able to tell Charlotte was thinking about this when they talked about him. It had leapt out to Tom as a brilliant opportunity, if necessary, but he quickly realized he didn't want to let anyone else be blamed for it. Blame implied something negative, but to Tom, there was still glory in it. He wanted to be recognized for his capability to do something like that. No one else should have the credit, let alone a less-than-human half-breed.

He went over all that again, and then thought about the rest of that evening's events. The conversation with Charlotte had gone well enough for not having gone according to plan. He hadn't known what to expect when she asked if they could talk, and alone. Part of him had been concerned she had somehow remembered about the garden, or wanted to talk about that stupid idea of hers, to somehow use _muggle_ 'innovation' to _improve_ the wizarding world—as if the muggles had anything to offer them.

She had resisted him at every attempt, and he hadn't been able to prevent them from having the conversation, so he had had to rely on quick thinking and careful wording to deal with her _concerns_. For the most part, she arrived at the conclusions that he wanted her to and she was so easy to manipulate. He wasn't quite sure why, but he supposed it must be because he was so good at manipulating and getting what he wanted. He convinced himself he hadn't failed that day, because it had worked out in the end. But Charlotte had been so _defiant_. And she had even _commanded him_ , telling him where to sit. It had taken a great deal of effort to contain his rage in those minutes.

Eventually, he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

So somehow this ended up being the longest chapter yet?

I hate writing all these mean things about Hagrid, but I mean it's Voldemort, so what else am I going to do? EDIT: forgot to mention that the werewolf cubs (what's with the word "cubs" in this context?) are from a line in CoS, when Harry meets the Diary Tom Riddle. According to Rowling, in some interview, Hagrid never actually did this, Riddle just made it up to slander him; it isn't specified _when_ he made it up, so I went ahead and used it here.

L'institution Lavallière is my idea, with the name suggestion from Bubblea because I asked her to help me come up with something and she did—thanks!


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note:** Since I last updated with a new chapter, I have revised much of chapter one and parts of other early chapters (still need to work more on those). I think the first chapter is much improved now, so I recommend giving it another read, if your interested~

* * *

Two weeks later, as Charlotte walked with Valeria down Hogsmeade's High Street towards Gladrags Wizardwear, something caught her eye in the window of the bookshop. There was a sign reading "SALE" and below that "Herbology books 20% off". She stopped, calling out to Valeria, who was ahead of her now, "You go on and I'll meet up with you later. I want to have a look in Tomes and Scrolls."

"Is Riddle's book obsession catching on with you too?" She turned and saw the discount sign. "Ah, Herbology. That's your siren song alright," she laughed. "I've got to get to my appointment, so I'll see you." She hurried on.

The appointment she was referring to was one she had arranged quite some time ago, and had been preparing for even longer. The manager of the Hogsmeade Glad Rags had agreed to take a look at some of her designs, and Valeria hoped some kind of partnership would come out of it.

Charlotte entered the bookshop. Despite the sale, the fiction section, although small, was more populated than the Herbology section. This suited Charlotte fine, but before she could reach the shelves she was interested in, the owner called her over.

"Miss, you may like to look at this." He summoned an especially elegant book from behind him and it came to rest on the counter in front of her. He opened it before she got a chance to look at the title, but the images inside, beautifully depicting all kind of magical plants, told her it was a Herbology book. Evidently he knew she was there for the sale. "I thought you might find this interesting," he said. "Please, have a look." As he spoke, he was looking past her at something, but she didn't turn to see what it was.

Charlotte carefully turned the pages and enjoyed examining each picture. Then, just after she heard the bell that signified the shop door had been opened, the man closed the book, from a distance with magic. "I apologize," he said to her confused face. "I need to speak with you, about your previous visit here." He sounded quite serious.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asked in response to his graveness, although she could recall nothing in her actions that would necessitate this kind of confrontation.

"No, no. In fact, it isn't really about you. The young man you were with…" He stopped speaking, and it seemed to Charlotte that he didn't know what he wanted to say.

"Tom Riddle. He's my boyfriend." She clarified, thinking perhaps that was what he was wondering.

"I thought he might be…" the man said to himself, with the same cryptic severity, more mysterious now because what reason would he have to care about her relationship with Tom?

To that point, she asked, "What concern is it of yours?" She was getting the impression that the man was a bit odd.

"Well it could either mean you've already noticed… certain things, or it could mean you will be very resistant to what I have to tell you. Given how proudly you proclaimed your relationship, I fear it is the latter." The man must have been crazy. Or he was playing a joke on her. But then, to think this was appropriate, he'd have to be a bit loony.

"Why shouldn't I be proud?" Everyone Charlotte usually spoke to, at school, was already aware of Tom's outstanding qualities. She hardly got the chance to tell anyone, and, as a result, she got a bit carried away now. "Tom is brilliant. Did you notice he's a prefect? And he's top of our class. It's very likely he'll end up Head Boy."

He cut her off. "Yes, yes, his merits at Hogwarts are numerous—but what of his character? For instance, are you aware of some of his… darker interests?" He spoke quickly and then glanced towards the door. Charlotte followed his gaze. It seemed strange that no one else had come into the shop, but perhaps not a coincidence; the curtains in the front windows had fallen mostly closed and just visible between them was the sign saying "open", facing inwards.

"What are you talking about? What would you know about him? I think I know him better than you do. And have you locked the door?" Charlotte asked in agitated anger.

"You're uncomfortable, I'm sorry. I understand. But listen to me, Miss Soleil, that boy is not what he seems to be. Of course, you know many things about how he seems to be, I'm sure. But there are some things you clearly do not know. He came in here hoping, although he doubted his hope would be fulfilled, to find a certain book. There is nothing that anyone on the right side of things needs to know in a book like that. The fact he even knows of its existence is disturbing."

"He's very well-read," interjected Charlotte. "And he was probably just curious about whatever it is because he likes knowing things."

"You're more concerned with defending him than wondering, say, how I know what I know."

"I'm sorry, sir, but you're not making any sense!" Charlotte was done with this madman. She took a sideways step towards the door. "I'm going to leave now, and I don't think I'll be visiting your shop again."

The door swung open for her to leave . "Fine, go. I've tried to warn you. I only hope I've done enough. I urge you to take caution, be vigilant. If you notice anything… concerning—" Charlotte didn't stay to hear the rest. She hurried out into the snowy path, where Hogwarts students and Hogsmeade inhabitants were passing by without any idea of the strange occurrence inside the bookshop.

She set out on a path towards Gladrags, pulling her cloak more tightly around herself as she walked quickly, wanting to get there, find Valeria, and put the owner of the bookshop out of her mind. But at the moment there was nothing to distract her. She couldn't recall the exact words he had used, and for a moment wished she had paid a bit more attention, but reminded herself that it didn't matter, because it was clearly made up. _Darker interests_ —who would believe that? The man probably didn't get out of shop enough and needed some entertainment. Why not stir up trouble for the silly little Hogwarts students? And now she imagined he was laughing to himself, alone in his shop.

"Hey! Charlotte!" Someone appeared in front of her. She grabbed ahold of her wand in a startled panic as she looked up. Strange. She hadn't realized she was so tense. Oliver was standing in front of her, a group of his friends a short distance away. She quickly tucked her wand away, hoping he wouldn't notice how on edge she had been. But he did. "No wonder you didn't see me waving to you," he said. "You're really nervous about something. Has something happened?"

"Oh, a rather odd… conversation with the owner of Tomes and Scrolls. I think he's not quite all there," she answered dismissively.

Oliver laughed, relaxing as she did. "Really? What did he say?"

"Oliver! It's cold and I want a butterbeer! Bring the girl along or stay behind; we're going to The Three Broomsticks!" One of the boys in the friend group shouted at them.

"Would you like to join us?" Oliver asked her.

"Well I was just on my way to meet up with Valeria, but I could join you for a little bit." Maybe that would help take her mind off the bookshop. And getting to know Oliver's friends, presumably also seventh years, would be a good thing.

The only girl in the group approached her first. "So you're _la fille française_ [the French girl]? We've never met, but I've heard about you. I'm Elizabeth Greene."

"It's nice to meet you, Elizabeth."

"Nice to meet you!"

"She won't be Miss Greene much longer," said the broad-shouldered, muscular boy who Charlotte thought she recognized from the Gryffindor quidditch team. He put his arm around Elizabeth's shoulders.

"We aren't engaged yet—stop telling people!" she answered with a playful grin.

"I'm sorry, Eliza, I'm too excited for you to be my wife—Mrs. Elliot Rochester."

The other boy with them didn't introduce himself until Charlotte asked him his name. It was obvious he was the quiet one of the group. "I'm Nigel Graham." He politely held out his hand to shake hers.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," she said.

"Likewise," he answered.

The group made their way to The Three Broomsticks. Charlotte insisted on purchasing everyone's butterbeer. Elizabeth said she would share with Elliot, which was a sort of compromise because initially she had refused Charlotte's offer.

They found a table and she was slightly uncomfortable realizing that it was the same one she and Tom had sat at the week before Valentine's Day. Being in that spot again, now with a group of unfamiliar people, felt a bit strange, but she quickly forgot about her previous experience there because the atmosphere was much different this time.

She sat between Oliver and Elizabeth. The conversation that ensued jumped from topic to topic as the group was a lively bunch. Then, in a span of silence, Elliot said, "Sorry to make you feel like a fifth wheel, Nigel," Elizabeth smacked his arm, and everyone else at the table began speaking at once, even Nigel.

"I have a boyf—"

"She's not my gi—"

"I don't think tha—"

"What?" Elliot exclaimed.

"She's dating _Tom Riddle_ ," said Elizabeth. "Yes, _that_ Tom Riddle. Incredibly bright, extremely handsome; he even caught the eye of some of us older girls—not me, of course."

"I was going to ask if I should be jealous," Elliot said with a laugh.

"No," she reassured him, linking her arm with his.

He turned back to the group. "Alright, I made a mistake, now let's forget that happened. Charlotte, um, so you have OWLS coming up. How are you feeling about that?" he asked, to redirect the conversation.

"I know, they're in just a couple weeks, I can't believe it. I'm sure I'll do fine. Mostly I just want them over with. I'm definitely ready to get back to learning new things."

"Be careful what you wish for," said Nigel, and the others laughed. "You'll love some time to review and catch up when you get to NEWT level classes."

"Watch out." Oliver said to him. "You're getting very close to talking about what we agreed not to mention today."

"He means exams, the NEWTs," Elizabeth whispered.

"This is our one day of relaxation," said Oliver. "We've been doing a lot of studying, as you can imagine," he added to Charlotte, apparently not serious in his warning to Nigel about the topic of tests.

"Some of us more than others." Elliot smirked at him.

Oliver chuckled and explained, "They like to say I study like a Ravenclaw."

"Some people say the same thing about Tom," she laughed.

 _He's very well-read_ , she heard herself say in her mind. Her smile fell away and she must have become noticeably perturbed, because Oliver, glancing over and seeing Elliot and Elizabeth were having a conversation of their own, asked her quietly, "Are you and him doing well?"

"Yes, we're fine. Everything's great. I was thinking about bookshop madman again."

"So he said something that had to do with Riddle?" he asked. She didn't answer, and he quickly said, "Sorry. I understand if you don't want to talk about it for whatever reason."

"It was just so bizarre… _He's not what you think!_ —things like that, he said."

"That _is_ strange," agreed Oliver. "Well, I was going to suggest, if you were still worried about Tom being jealous, you should tell him you were with me in Hogsmeade today, and then mention we were with my friends, just to see how he reacts." He was smiling like he found the thought of this amusing.

Charlotte simply laughed, since clearly Oliver thought it was funny. Then, to rejoin the larger conversation, she looked to Elliot and asked, "Am I right in thinking that you're on Gryffindor's Quidditch team?"

"I was, yeah. I was a beater. They recruited me in fourth year, but I only lasted two years on the team. I quit—well, I didn't try out again at the start of sixth year. Although they wanted me to—oh did they want me to! I just didn't have the team spirit though. Quidditch was alright, but I wasn't really into it, like most on the teams are."

"Now wait a moment—they didn't _all_ want you back! Some of them you alienated with your 'there should be more sports than Quidditch campaign'," Elizabeth laughed.

"Oh that," said Nigel under his breath, smiling.

"It's true!" exclaimed Elliot. "Muggles have loads of sports—baseball, basketball, football, rugby! Wizards? One. Just one. Quidditch is all we need, said the purebloods."

"We never said that," Charlotte replied defensively, without thinking. Everyone looked at her. Oliver took a deep breath. "I'm sure you were only making a joke, of course." Her words came across with the implication that he'd best not say anything else against purebloods, disguised in an understanding tone.

"You're too pretty to be a pureblood."

"What?" Charlotte spoke sharply. She had been so shocked, she hadn't even perceived who had said this. She realized it was Elliot when he responded.

"You have to have noticed all your kind look a bit odd, from keeping your blood _pure_ , marrying your cousins."

"Elliot, you can't say that to her," Elizabeth said fairly calmly.

"He's already said it."

"Thank you, Nigel, for stating the obvious," she snapped.

Charlotte moved to get up so she could leave, even though she couldn't stand properly in the booth. Oliver tapped Nigel and they stood to let her out.

"Charlotte, he didn't mean to offend you," Oliver said.

"Well, I _am_ offended, although not hurt. But there's no reason for me to stay where I have to hear things like that. Valeria's waiting for me." And without looking back, she left The Three Broomsticks.

She arrived at Gladrags Wizardwear, but couldn't find Valeria. The young man working at the register told her she had just left. They had shorter Hogsmeade trips now, because for some reason, with the attacks, the school deemed that a useful precaution. Charlotte realized she must have spent longer with Oliver and his friends than she had realized. Now, on top of everything else, she had disappointed Valeria too.

She caught up with her friend as the students grouped together to make their way back to the castle. "Where were you?" asked Valeria.

"I'm sorry, after the bookstore Oliver invited me to go to get butterbeers with him and his friends, so I did. But it didn't end very well."

"Oh, well that's unfortunate. You'll have to tell me all about it, later—because I want to tell you about my meeting with Lorelei!" Charlotte tried to listen to Valeria, who was so excited in her carrying on that she didn't even notice her friend's lack of interest. Normally, Charlotte would have been very interested to know what had happened; she was supportive Valeria and loved hearing about her successes, but at this time, she was still feeling heated from the episode with Elliot. And she was a bit annoyed that Valeria had started this whole long story, without being asked, and when Charlotte had something to say.

When they returned to the Slytherin common room, Charlotte immediately saw the back of a familiar, dark-haired head over the top of the couch. She turned to Valeria. "I'd like to go talk to Tom," she said.

"Right," Valeria answered, less enthusiastic than usual.

Charlotte walked around the sofa to join Tom. He looked up at her and smiled. "How was Hogsmeade?" he asked.

"I wish I had stayed back at school with you," she said, sitting down beside him.

He raised his eyebrows. "You didn't enjoy yourself?"

"Not really, no. The first thing—the man in Tomes and Scrolls saying odd things—I could have gotten along fine with, but _then_ I ran into Oliver—"

"Oliver?"

"Oliver Winship."

"Yes, I know who you mean."

"Anyway, he and his friends invited me to go to The Three Broomsticks with them, so I did, and it was fine _until_ Elliot, one of his friends, started saying all these things about purebloods. And I made it clear that _I_ am pureblood, and he didn't stop! He told me I was too pretty to be a pureblood." She couldn't put into words what she found wrong with this comment, but it aggravated her.

"Some people are just foolish; they would rather mock greatness than do what they can to be of use, with what little worth they have."

"I simply don't know why he would think it was fine to talk like that in the first place."

"As I said, some people are fools."

"Yes, I got the impression he wasn't the most intelligent." She hadn't truly thought this during their conversation, but it seemed right to say it now. Tom smiled.

"People like that enjoy saying disparaging things about purebloods because they make them feel inferior, which they are."

"And the rest of them, they weren't all shocked; none of them jumped to my defense. I wish you had been there. You would have come up with the perfect thing to say to put an end to it."

"I wish I had been there too, for your sake. I suppose they agreed with him, the others. What did he say exactly?"

"After the 'too pretty to be a pureblood' comment, he said ' _your kind_ all look a bit odd because of keeping our blood pure. And then he said something about marrying one's cousins."

"Hm," resounded from deep in his throat.

"Now that I think about it, what he said isn't even true, which doesn't make it any less despicable, however—"

"Despicable? You use a strong word." He smiled and she drew the conclusion that he was teasing her, in some form, because she had said the same thing to him.

"He upset me greatly," she said in explanation.

"You shouldn't let it upset you. You're better than him and his opinion doesn't matter. Although, he had one thing right."

Charlotte thought for a moment, worked out what Tom would likely say, then asked with a smile, "What's that?"

"You're _very_ pretty."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So many new characters in this chapter! I'm getting quite a list of original side characters for this story; if there are any I've introduced that you want to know about and would like to see featured more, you are welcome to say so~ (Perdita Pepper, Winky Crockett {although not quite original}, Henry Sprott, Professor Runewood, Talia Thistledown, Cyrus Quinn, Calliope Yuille {+her twin and younger sister I haven't mentioned yet}, Oliver Winship, Elizabeth Greene, Nigel Graham, Elliot Rochester. Then there's the strange old man at the bookshop. And of course, Valeria, but she's getting included more no matter what. Also Charlotte's parents—I'll get to them sometime.) Do you have a favorite?


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note:** In the process of revising this chapter! There was some stuff that I just couldn't leave in any longer so I fixed that but didn't do all the edits I would have liked because it would take more time. I've got a whole list of changes to make to earlier chapters and I'm working through them in order of highest priority.

* * *

Valeria had gone back to their dormitory after Charlotte told her she wanted to talk to Tom. When Charlotte came down a while later, Valeria was silent—no greeting, no questions, no comment. This didn't go unnoticed by Charlotte as odd, but she didn't understand the reason for it.

"What are you working on?" she asked, seeing Valeria had once again covered her bed in fabrics and was standing in front of her dress form, which had one of her sets of school robes on it.

Valeria stopped what she was doing, but took her time answering. "If you'd been listening to me earlier, you would know," she said with a sigh.

Charlotte folded her arms. "I had other things on my mind. If you had listened to what _I_ wanted to say, you would know about it."

"Well see, only one of us can talk at a time." She was making Charlotte feel foolish, and that was bringing back some of her anger. "So, do you want to tell me about it now? Or not?" Valeria asked.

"It doesn't really matter," she said. Now that time had distanced her from the event, and Tom had helped cool her exasperation, she felt less upset. "Just several people I encountered making fools of themselves."

"Earlier you mentioned Oliver and his friends. What happened with them?" Charlotte recounted the conversation to her, now with much less emotion than she had had when she told Tom, although repeating Elliot's words momentarily infuriated her all over again. "I'm surprised they were talking about that," Valeria said. "The attacks have made people more cautious about bringing up blood purity, in case it makes them a target. But they were Gryffindors, you say? Maybe they think they'll be able to fight off whoever or whatever is causing the attacks." She snorted. Charlotte, too, had to laugh at this. Then Valeria continued, "I suppose we shouldn't be laughing about that though. While you and I aren't in any real danger, it truly is frightening a lot of people. I admit it scares me a bit, too. To think that someone could have it out for the Muggle-Borns like that…"

"And am I right in understanding that this whole thing is… part of the school's history? That Salazar Slytherin started it, and there's a _Chamber of Secrets_ and someone is the _Heir of Slytherin_?" Charlotte asked.

"Nothing's ever been proven about any of that. There certainly are a lot of stories that would make it appear true, but it could just be people copying each other and being—I don't like to use the word in this way, but—inspired by the stories. Anyway, the existence of any secret chamber built by Slytherin is highly dubious, if you ask me. Really, how could it be part of the castle and no one, other than these supposed _Heirs_ have found it over the years?" This seemed logical to Charlotte too.

"I suppose I'll ask Tom if he knows anything about it," she said.

Valeria nodded. "If there's information on it out there, he's probably read it in a book at some point."

"That was my thinking exactly," laughed Charlotte.

* * *

Tom stood in a hallway on the first floor, feeling very uncomfortable. There was absolutely no way of explaining his presence there if he were caught doing what he was about to do. He watched a Ravenclaw girl disappear around the corner. " _Homenum revelio_ ," he said, pointing his wand in the direction of the girls' lavatory. It was empty. He hurriedly made his way across the hall and went in, ignoring the burning sensation in his hand as he turned the doorknob. Not much of a deterrent if someone who shouldn't really wanted to get in. But that was very fortunate for him. And for the destiny of Slytherin's heir.

He stood in front of one of the sinks and spoke in Parseltongue. " _Open_."

The circle of sinks lowered and vanished, followed by the large pillar that they were centered around. A seemingly bottomless pit was left in the floor. The first time he had entered the Chamber of Secrets, he had, not knowing what to expect, been forced to slide down the tunnel in a wholly undignified manner. Now he had better ways. He cast a spell that brought stones out of the side of the walls to form stairs, like a reverse version of the _glisseo_ spell. It would have been much faster to take the slide, but it just felt so ridiculous and humiliating, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

" _You haven't completed your tasssk_." Tom heard the snake's voice as soon as he made it into the Chamber. Excuses ran through his mind. _Excuses_ , he thought with disgust; since when was he someone who had to make excuses? " _Do you know which task I mean_?" The Basilisk appeared, entering the Chamber from one of its tunnels. If it had had a human face it would have worn a sneer; Tom could hear the derision without need of that, however.

" _Only one task matters. Your_ spider _is inconsequential_ ," he answered bitterly. He heard a hiss that indicated anger. Good. They could both be angry.

" _Have you made arrangementss for another attack, then_?" Tom didn't answer. The snake turned away. " _Jusst as well. It would likely only amount to another failure anyway_." How dare— This made Tom's blood boil. He raised his wand.

" _Expulso_!" Their corner of the Chamber seemed to turn blue with the light from the spell reflecting off every surface. The Basilisk was only thrown a short distance, but the force of its landing shook the room. It lunged at him, baring its fangs. Tom couldn't suppress a flinch.

" _You foolish, inssolent boy! Do you intend to reveal us? The whole school will have felt that!_ " It exaggerated. He merely continued to stare, filled with rage, at the snake, although they couldn't make eye contact. " _You possess immenssse power; you musstn't ever attack me. Imagine if you_ killed _the great Bassilissk of Slytherin._ "

" _I would hatch a replacement_ ," he spat. The snake had a point, however; he would never hope to kill the Basilisk that Salazar Slytherin himself had brought into the world. No need to tell the snake that it was right, though. At least, not in a way that would please it. " _You're right; perhaps I should have used the_ Cruciatus _curse. Don't tempt me._ " The Basilisk reared up at him again. " _I am your master. You cannot harm me_ ," he thundered.

The snake recoiled slowly with another irritated, incoherent hiss, followed by, "... _But I_ could _cast my ssight upon your lover_."

" _She doesn't matter to me_ ," Tom said defiantly. " _But she is a pureblood. You wouldn't go against the wishes of your original master and harm her. You have a duty to wizardkind to support the interests of those who have not dirtied their blood... and those of us who believe it is better to be that way._ " He half expected the Basilisk to make some snide remark about the necessity of that addition in order to include himself, but it seemed his threats had taught the creature some respect, for the time being. Instead, it went from the Chamber, leaving Tom with his thoughts.

He clung to his final words to the Basilisk; they proved his detachment from Charlotte, but showed a reasonable concern for her safety, based only on her status as a pureblood. With these words, he tried to wash away the echo of hearing ' _your lover'_.

The Basilisk's words had confronted him with the recollection of what he had felt when Charlotte had told him about Hogsmeade. The thought had flashed through his mind, just long enough to concern him; the feeling lingered, the feeling that on some level he cared enough about Charlotte that he wanted to retaliate for what had been said to her. And he had the means to do so.

 _Elliot, one of Oliver's friends_ , he remembered in her voice. It would be easy enough to find out who he was. Why did she have to mention the name? He would have been spared this torment if only he didn't know who the boy was.

Still, this boy deserved his punishment. He was clearly anti-pureblood. But Tom didn't think he ought to attack him because it might be traced back to him; he'd already let personal feelings get in the way once with Perdita. And besides, this didn't have anything to do with him; this was about _Charlotte_. He couldn't be doing things for her sake now. That would be an act of love, wouldn't it? Or something like it. Too close. His lip curled in revulsion.

He used to be on Gryffindor's Quidditch team. That was easy enough to figure out. He could almost recall the name… Chesterfield? No. And just as well he couldn't remember… He didn't want to know.

Rockwell? Also not it. He told himself to stop, right there; he was on the brink of remembering—Rochester. Elliot Rochester.

He was more irked than pleased that he had figured out the name. Now it would be so easy to tell the Basilisk who their next target was to be, and have it be him…

* * *

In the common room the following morning, just after breakfast, Charlotte sat down beside Tom and, without any prelude, asked, "Do you know if there's any truth to the stories about an Heir of Slytherin and the Chamber of Secrets?"

He felt a great concern that she was asking about this, but concealed it. "Aren't the attacks evidence of it? Of the Heir, at least; perhaps not the Chamber."

"Well, Val and I were talking about it and we thought that just because there have been attacks supposedly carried out by the Heir doesn't mean whoever that is really _is_ the Heir, or that the status of being the Heir is even a real thing, for that matter. We wondered if you knew anything more about it, from your reading."

What he knew was not to be shared with her, not even the smallest piece of fact. "It really is a mystery," he said. "The truth has been well-hidden, if there is any truth to it."

"So you haven't read anything?" she asked, disappointed. He shook his head.

"Not anything more than what you've already heard, I think."

"What about in that book I got you? Part of it is about Slytherin; does it not mention the legend?"

"I haven't read much of it yet," he lied. "I thought I would read it over the summer, seeing as it doesn't belong to Hogwarts and I can take it with me." For this reason, he did intend to read it, again, during the holiday. He resentfully thought about how that would bring Charlotte to mind while he was free of her. However, rewording this realization allowed him to say something that would gain her favor. He put his hand on hers. "And it will remind me of you while we're parted." He looked deeply into her eyes to see the flare of emotion that would give him a sense of triumph, but what he felt was not success; it was failure at controlling his own emotions. So he told himself he only wanted her physically, and tried to make it true.

He placed his other hand on her face and kissed her with enough force and for long enough that people noticed. That _certainly_ had _not_ been his aim. "I wish I could make everyone else in the room disappear right now," he whispered with his face still very close to hers.

She glanced around the room, her gaze halting on each of the other students nearest to them. Her eyes returned to him. _"Then_ what would you do?"

What was it people said? She'd ride on his broom? Why did it have to be so ridiculous sounding? He wouldn't say it. Besides, she looked as though she already knew the answer to the question she was asking. "Take you to the Quidditch pitch," he said. Close enough to be comprehensible, but less…silly.

But then she said, " _Le septième étage..._ "

He looked at her with a smile; he had taken it upon himself to do some basic French studies. This was the first time he would be able to use it. It was easy enough to tell that _septième_ was something related to seven, probably 'seventh', and that meant _étage_ was probably 'floor'. " _Tu comprends_? You understand?" she asked, pleasantly surprised. He nodded. " _Quand_?" He understood. This was most convenient, her making the suggestion; now the third attack would be in only two days' time.

Before she even translated, he answered, " _Mardi_. [Tuesday.]" She beamed at him.

"You're full of surprises today, _mon chéri_."

He kissed her cheek. " _Je t'aime._ " It meant _I love you_ , and he hoped he could still deny it was true.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Let me just say that I loved writing the interaction with the Basilisk. I'm not exactly sure what it is about it, but it was a lot of fun.

I had a feeling when I previously included the phrase "making love" that it was actually inaccurate. I knew that in the past it only meant flirting, but I wasn't sure when the understanding changed. I wanted it to be correct because it made for such a good segue (in chapter 10, from which I have since removed the line—because historical accuracy; it was kind of an unnecessary part that I ended up not liking much anyway, so nothing of value was lost). But I did some research this time and it was basically not at all used in that sense in the early 1940s. (In 1949, the phrase was used to mean sex in George Orwell's _1984_. I include this fact because later events in this story draw some accidental inspiration from _1984_ —one line in particular. So, there will be some commentary on that when I get to it. It's been over a year since I read it, but I wrote a pretty long paper that had to do with it, so it's kind of inescapably relevant to me now, haha.) Anyway, I was left with the option of making up my own euphemisms because I didn't like any of the ones that were in use then. Like Tom, I think a lot of them sound... well, I don't know how people take each other seriously while talking like that. But Wizards have their own slang, so I guess it was about time I introduced some of that.

Sorry that was so long.

Last thing: in spite of this chapter's ending, don't be fooled; Tom does not end up happily in love with Charlotte in the end. I'm not about that out-of-character writing, haha. Although... some ideas _have_ crossed my mind about an alternate ending for this, as another story (which would be still in character, but no longer canon-compatible). Please tell me if that is something you think you might like to read~ Or if you're not sure and have questions about what it might be like, feel free to ask; I'd explain it better here, but this has already gotten super long, so.


	24. Chapter 24

By now Charlotte and Tom were quite used to roaming the halls of Hogwarts when everyone else was in bed. On Tuesday night, as planned, they made their way back to the dungeon before morning. Almost.

Something startled Charlotte and she grabbed ahold of Tom's wrist. "Did you hear something?" she asked in a whisper.

"No," he answered, trying to pull his arm out of her grasp, but her grip was too tight. "What would it be that you should be this scared anyway?"

"The attacks always happen at night…"

"To _Mudbloods_ , not people like us."

She was still uneasy as they continued walking. He could feel her tenseness, feeding into him, through her touch— she was holding his hand now; it was annoying him, and he didn't feel a direct enough responsibility for her fear to enjoy it. He turned to her to say something to get her to stop being so anxious— to her, reassuring. "Don't be afraid. I won't let anything happen to you." He could promise this—not that it mattered if it was true or not. For him, it was a reminder that he was in control of the threat the castle was under, which was something he liked to think of as often as he could. Both hands now on her waist, he kissed her. Then he too heard something; he abruptly pulled his lips away from hers, suddenly saying, "We should hurry back though." A small smile on her face, she nodded, took his hand again and carried on down the corridor.

Before they could turn the corner, however, the sound of footsteps of one making no effort to conceal themself was heard, followed by a voice sharply saying, "Stop!" And then, " _Incendio_!" The torches lining the wall they were closest to were set alight. The voice belonged to Professor Merrythought, so Charlotte was calm enough—no longer afraid of the attacker trailing them—as she faced their teacher. She dropped her gaze and inched away from Tom, as if that space now would make any difference in the accusation upon them. "Oh. It's you two," Professor Merrythought said. "Raina!" she called around the corner. Professor Runewood appeared, followed by a floating, statuesque figure. Another petrification. Charlotte went a bit pale as she looked at the stone-like boy suspended there behind the two professors.

Professor Runewood was first to reprimand them. "I can't believe the two of you would be as foolish as this, to put yourselves in danger, wandering around when _clearly_ ," she gestured to the third victim, "it isn't safe!"

"You may be top of my class, Mr. Riddle, and Miss Soleil, you may, too, be very near top of the class—a formidable pair, to be sure—but I am also appalled by your carelessness." Professor Merrythought looked back and forth between them.

Tom stared at the ground with his arms folded over his chest, his muscles all tightened in fury; he was furious that somehow another attempted murder had turned into a relatively harmless petrification. He seethed with indignation, which the others would misconstrue as being a manifestation of shame for having been caught breaking the rules.

"We must ask if you can confess knowing anything about the attack," demanded Professor Runewood. Professor Merrythought turned her head in alarm at this question—good; so his innocence was already secured in her mind.

After Runewood spoke, she added, "Or if you perhaps saw anything, anyone, of suspicion?"

"No!" Charlotte exclaimed. "We had nothing to do with it!" Tom tried not to smile too much at her vehement denial, which was in fact wrong.

"Nor did we see anyone else," he said. "I'm sorry we can't be of any help."

"Very well. But you may be asked again, so I would advise you to make sure you can stand by your story." Professor Runewood gave them each a hard stare as she said this. He couldn't believe there was suspicion left in her, _towards him_. Somewhere in his mind he had thought all along that it was ludicrous that he created this alibi, because no one would suppose it to be him anyway, even if he were caught at the scene of the crime. Now it seemed that wasn't true. At least he had had the foresight to prepare for the worst. This was what fear did to people; it made them irrational. Removing the function of reason could certainly work to the advantage of one who wanted to rule over others, but in this case… No matter, however; he remained confident that the attacks would not be traced back to him.

"I'll escort you both back to the Slytherin common room," Professor Merrythought said, stepping forward.

"And I'll go up to Gryffindor Tower," said Professor Runewood, "to inform Mr. Rochester—the other Mr. Rochester—of what has happened." Neither of the women was paying attention to Charlotte's reaction, which was fortunate because it might have raised further questions, but Tom watched her carefully. He expected to see the curl of a satisfied smile at the corners of her mouth. But she didn't look particularly pleased; in fact, she looked uncomfortable and perhaps even _concernedly_ perplexed at the seeming coincidence of this family's repeated appearance in her life. It was a good thing he hadn't done it for her, because he was getting no reward from it. Still, he was disappointed—disappointed in her for not feeling righteous at this discovery, feeling that justice had been done. Elliot would suffer in concern for his little, thirteen year old brother. Why wasn't she happy about that?

As Professor Merrythought led the way downstairs, she said, "I'm sure you are both aware that you will get detention for this. And someone will be writing to—" she caught herself and then glanced at Tom. "Well, Miss Soleil, your parents will receive a letter. And Mr. Riddle, if something like this were to happen again, it could jeopardize you being a prefect," she admonished him. Evidently she didn't want to see that happen to him, so she gave him a gentle warning—as if he couldn't have guessed at further repercussions himself. Charlotte, meanwhile, looked miserable, and more so when Professor Merrythought said this to Tom. Yes, clearly she was feeling guilt; clearly she was expressing her affection for him, the fact that she… loved him. It didn't spark a reciprocal warm feeling in him; instead, it did the opposite. How could she be so weak? Caring that her actions had negative consequences for someone else. Although if he thought of it another way, her reaction was appropriate. A person in submission to another ought to feel responsible for the impact they have on them, their master—their _lord_ —and he was, after all, _Lord Voldemort_. He imagined that this was the reason for Charlotte's behavior, a subservient sense of duty. Although he knew it wasn't true.

...

Tom lay on his back staring at the ceiling, now returned to his dormitory on that Wednesday morning, waiting for the school to be told of another attack—another petrification, another _failure_ of his. He had to try again soon. There was hardly more than a month remaining in the year.

In his head, he could hear the Basilisk's jeers. _Unworthy… The half-blood Heir cannot live up to our expectations…_ He wouldn't be surprised if the Basilisk were somehow sabotaging him. After all, it couldn't be his fault that there had been, respectively, a mirror, a flood, and omnioculars at each of the attacks. Although only one of those things could have possibly been the snake's doing.

Avery was sitting up in his bed and looked over at Tom. "Too bad about you and Charlotte," he said. "Reckon it was worth it though." He smirked. Jealousy was plaguing Tom again, but he decided to let himself speak in that way to distract himself, and maybe it would make Avery leave him alone too.

He looked back at the other boy. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Avery laughed with a hint of nervousness. "Only that she's quite the good-looking one."

"Everyone's noticed that," added one of the other boys in the room.

In one movement, Tom sat up and swung his legs off the bed, facing the others. "She's spoken for," he said sternly. "You aren't allowed to find her attractive."

"I don't think any of us were thinking of trying to steal her from you," said Mulciber, with a half grin. The others, out of some combination of respect and fear, wouldn't respond to him; Mulciber, however, tested his boundaries at times. Tom gave him a cold stare to put him in his place.

He didn't see Charlotte again that day, at least at any close proximity, until the afternoon. She sat next to him in the common room and was saying things he assumed she meant to be comforting, but were really just irritating.

"I'm sure we aren't the first to have been in a situation like this," she said. The real problem he was concerned with—his mission as Heir and his… shortcomings— _was_ something he believed himself to be the first to suffer through, so this was a comment that only upset him further.

After a while she quietly asked, "What are we going to do now? I don't think I could bear it they took your prefect badge from you and I felt it was my fault in some part. But I also can't imagine never getting to be alone with you again, throughout the whole time we're at school."

They could be alone, just not in the middle of the night; however, instead of reminding her of this, he said, "Maybe we should spend less time together."

She turned her head rapidly to look at him with worry. "You don't mean… permanently?" she asked slowly. He looked at her briefly. Her sadness didn't bring him twisted joy, nor did it repulse him; he simply registered that it was sadness. And he didn't know what to do. There was no explanation that he could be at peace with.

He had let himself go too far; she meant too much to him. It had to stop. And now was the perfect time, too. He had a believable reason. All he had to do was tell her that their relationship was causing him to do things he regretted—which, ironically, meant that he would be telling the truth—and that he couldn't do that anymore. No one would think it was strange. No one would become suspicious, including Charlotte.

She was still waiting for an answer. "Charlotte," he began in a serious voice, his tone verging on dark, sparing himself the gentleness that would be required if he actually cared about her. He breathed in, ready to speak—but the words caught in his throat. Then, a thought striking him, he said, "Do you still think your mother will want me to visit you this summer?"

He had forgotten until that moment the opportunity that would be lost if he were to end things with Charlotte then. The chance to be around a powerful, influential, pureblood wizarding family; he couldn't guess at all the things he might learn from that. Time away from the orphanage; for the first time in his life, aside from going to Hogwarts, the freedom to escape that place. He couldn't deny himself those things. Furthermore, he had told himself before that he would overcome this challenge and not let love force him to back away.

Charlotte replied with a relieved smile, although her answer didn't make her entirely happy. "It's hard to say. I can imagine her being upset just as easily as I can imagine her being dismissive of this. But if there's anything I can say or do that will convince her, I will."

He smiled and took her hand. Staring at their interlaced fingers, he tried to understand what he was feeling. He had no idea what he thought love was anymore. But what was essential to him was that he did not put Charlotte before himself. What might be best for her would not get in the way of what _he_ wanted. Her feelings didn't matter, unless they threatened to destroy the relationship he had worked hard to build. As long as he got what he wanted, he didn't care.

And holding her hand made him feel… he searched for the right way to describe it; it gave him a sense of power, like he was drawing energy from her. He felt stronger because of it. Previously he had scoffed at the idea of love because he thought it made you dependent on another person. At that time, he never would have been able to feel this way. Whatever _this way_ was. He couldn't say whether he loved her now because he couldn't say he understood what love was, but because he didn't know what else to call it, he supposed it might as well be 'love'. And still he wasn't dependent on her—but if being with her made him feel more powerful, he saw no reason to reject that feeling.


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note:** So I only had the first three "paragraphs" here at the beginning as the first section, and I didn't like it so I tried to expand it. Then I ended up with an entire new scene and a half—and a rather long additional scene, at that—which made this chapter so long I had to split it into two. Because the next part was originally intended to be part of this, I'm updating this early so that I can add that next part on Friday evening/Saturday morning.

* * *

Madame and Monsieur Soleil took their time in sending the letter that Charlotte and Tom were waiting for. Each day at breakfast, Charlotte would anxiously scan the arriving owls for hers; she anticipated a howler in response to them finding out she had received detention for sneaking out with Tom. Tom was simply restless to know how great of amends he would have to make in order to convince her parents to let him visit.

The letter didn't arrive until just before their O.W.L. examinations were beginning. Charlotte joined Tom where he was sitting at breakfast to tell him about it. It wasn't a howler, and the letter at first began by encouraging Charlotte in her O.W.L.s, then expressing concern about the continuing attacks at the school—her mother was sure to mention she felt such a thing never would have happened at Beauxbatons—and then she at last addressed the rule-breaking.

"Well, she doesn't say anything about uninviting you this summer," Charlotte said, looking across the table at Tom. He gave a small, distracted, smile. She'd gone on for so long telling him about the rest of the letter, he'd almost completely stopped paying attention. He had to remind himself that listening was how one learnt of potentially valuable information, and one never knew when some small fact might prove useful.

"You ought to be on your best behavior when you're there though, or else they might use the opportunity to talk you out of dating me."

"I don't think they could do that," Tom said. He meant it, not because he loved her so much that he wouldn't be able to be without her,—although more than likely that was how she would take it—but because he would never let another person dictate the actions he took; in fact, getting Charlotte to go against her parents' wishes would only make her love more rewarding to him.

She was staring at him now—he had definitely been right about her interpretation—and it was making him uncomfortable. In the past he had seen adoration on her face and it had pleased him, told him how well he had made her his. But in this moment, that was not so. Her eyes on him felt like a physical force, crushing him; he began to feel afraid, although he couldn't say why. He couldn't match her loving gaze, and he couldn't kiss her instead. Finally he found a solution, and, looking down as if he were embarrassed, said, "Don't look at me like that here, Charlotte."

He glanced back at her. She did seem to be attempting to restrain the effusive loving expression, but was not succeeding. "I can't help it," she said.

"Then I'll have to leave." He stood up from the bench as he spoke.

"Wait," she said with a laugh, not expecting him to actually go.

"I'll see you later." He turned away and left the Great Hall without looking back at her once. He wandered the corridors until it had been sufficiently long enough since he saw anyone else, then he leaned back against the wall, tilting his head upwards to stare at nothing in particular on the ceiling. He just wanted to know why that look on Charlotte's face made him feel this way, and then he could deal with it.

He thought it might be because he couldn't look at her that way in return. He didn't want to, not if it was genuine, but it was unavoidable if he was to play the part of Charlotte's perfect and loving boyfriend. But he couldn't, and he wasn't entirely sure why that was either. He'd tried; he'd practiced,—as ridiculous as it was, yes, he'd practiced—pictured Charlotte and then tried to configure his features into some semblance of adoration. He hadn't even come close.

He could easily put on a face that showed he wanted to kiss her, to touch her, for their bodies to touch all over, to be alone with her where they could let those things happen. It must have been because there was some truth to that feeling. But not in the other. He supposed he was relieved at that. He didn't think he would like the sight of a look like that on his face anyway. He would just have to keep Charlotte bound to him without tender, loving expressions.

Still, that didn't answer precisely why her showing how much she loved him made him feel _afraid_. Was he that worried she would find out his true feelings (or lack thereof)? It had been about six months, and she hadn't caught on yet… He felt like that wasn't the reason. A nagging thought in the back of his mind said it was that love still frightened him. He hadn't succeeded in conquering that fear. He'd recognized it before, but had made no plan to end it, and that had been his mistake.

To fear his own emotions—that meant he didn't have control over them. But what could he do? It was all very frustrating. He'd made something of a mess of his life since letting Charlotte into it.

"There you are." And here she was again, as if to prove that point. He wasn't surprised she had decided to look for him, although that didn't stop him feeling annoyed by it.

He had slid down the wall while thinking and was almost sitting on the floor now; Charlotte came and sat on the ground beside him. "What's wrong?"

For a brief moment, _very_ brief, he wondered what would happen if he told her. He didn't know what else to say; she wouldn't believe him if he denied there was a problem.

"I know it's something; otherwise you wouldn't be sitting here looking like you're about to cry." He turned towards her sharply, looking shocked with an undertone of anger.

"I _was not_ about to cry."

Charlotte smiled. "It's fine if you were. But I only said that's what it looked like."

"I wasn't," he repeated gruffly.

"So what were you thinking about that was upsetting you? Not to the point of tears, of course."

He stared ahead in silence, avoiding her question for as long as he could. An emotional heart to heart was not something he was used to having to fabricate. He opted for some form of truth, but he would make Charlotte swear not to mention it to anyone else.

"The summer," he answered, sinking the rest of the way to the ground and turning towards her. She started to look sad and he realized she thought he meant the time he would spend with her family. He coldly let her believe it for a moment. He looked away again. "Going back to— Well, leaving Hogwarts."

"Oh…" That seemed to be all she was going to say, and Tom was about to dismiss the topic, when she asked, "Why are you still there?" Her face, inquisitive and gentle, didn't change when he scowled at the question. He exhaled and relaxed his expression; she really did expect him to answer… Relationships meant shared secrets. Right.

"Do you think I'd want to be adopted by Muggles?" he replied testily.

"No. But didn't anyone ever want to adopt you? I'll be very surprised if you say no."

"I didn't make myself very likeable. Even with Mrs. Cole trying to get rid of me, only a few couples ever got into proceedings to try to take me, but I scared them away in the end." Charlotte was looking at him very sadly. "I didn't want to live with Muggles anyway, like I just said." He wanted to dispel her pity as quickly as possible.

"You were already living with Muggles. Parents, maybe a brother or sister even, would have been nicer, I think."

"But when I leave the orphanage, I never have to go back. A family would want me to come home for Christmas every year, keep in touch… I'd never be rid of them." Until they died—he left that addition unspoken.

Finally he'd satisfied her curiosity—or so he thought. She then commented, "You didn't know about magic and "Muggles" until you were eleven. What was your reason when you were younger?" Her pity had only grown deeper, now that she was trying to decipher his childhood, seeing him as a tragic little boy. He didn't answer. What was he supposed to say? Family meant love and love meant sacrifice; he wanted nothing to do with it. He couldn't tell her the truth even if he wanted to.

She changed her question. "What if there had been a wizarding family? You'd have gone with them, wouldn't you?"

"A wizarding family trying to adopt a supposedly Muggle child? I don't see that happening."

"I know it isn't realistic; I'm speaking hypothetically. Would you have wanted to be part of their family?"

"I never thought about it, since it wasn't a possibility." He stalled for time to decide on an answer. He wished he could simply say no, but Charlotte would question why. "I guess, yes, a family who could teach me about magic would have been acceptable." Looking at Charlotte, he realized with a sinking feeling that he had been too detached and not convinced her. He waited tensely for her to say something, but she didn't. To his surprise, the look of overflowing love returned; he could see it out of the corner of his eye. He was averse to seeing any more of it than that, but if he was going to put an end to his fear… He slowly turned his face towards her, and realized that, since they were alone, he could kiss her; that made things easier at least.

It was a different sort of kiss. Slow, calm—honestly a bit boring; it didn't make him want to push her over and get her undressed as quickly as possible—but it seemed to mean something to Charlotte. When she brought her lips away from his and looked at him, she had the same expression, accompanied now by a greater smile. It was like he was hearing her say "I love you" over and over again without her breathing a word. He stared back at her, managing a smile in spite of the discomfort he was feeling at her loving gaze.

Then a distant voice crept into his mind. " _She doesn't matter to me_." Parseltongue. His memory reminding him of— No, that wasn't in his mind; it wasn't his voice. It was coming from the wall, and that meant the Basilisk was somewhere along the pipes on the other side, mocking him. He stood up quickly and Charlotte rose with him because she still had her arms around him. "We should go," he said, leading her away down the hall.

* * *

"What has she got to cry about, honestly? If anyone should be crying, it's us fifth years. O.W.L.s—tomorrow! Can you believe it?"

"Oh I believe it. I've felt as though we were about to take the exams _tomorrow_ every day for the last month," Charlotte replied to Valeria as they sat themselves down for lunch.

Tom was already seated nearby, _Numerology and Grammatica_ suspended in front of him to read as he ate. He stood up somewhat abruptly. Charlotte turned towards him in her seat, "Where are you off to?" He had left early during breakfast as well. He needed to eat.

"Library. We haven't got time left to waste, as you point out," he said, glancing at Valeria.

Valeria made an exasperated face. "If _you're_ still running around doing last minute studying, how are the rest of us to feel about our preparation?" Charlotte knew that he would continue to read and study even if the professors told him he was completely ready for the O.W.L.s—and they had more or less done this—but she still found Valeria's reaction amusing. Tom laughed too.

"Well maybe we can join, after we're done eating?" Charlotte said, glancing between the other two.

"I'll be studying Arithmancy," said Tom, holding up his book. "But you're welcome to come sit nearby and do your own studying." Charlotte smiled and gave him a nod, and then he turned to leave.

* * *

Tom struggled to keep a steady, calm pace as he headed down the first-floor corridor towards the girls' lavatory that held the entrance to the Chamber and, at this moment, an obnoxious, Ravenclaw third-year by the name of Myrtle Warren. It was easy enough to deduce that was who Valeria had spoken about; she had gotten in Tom's way several times before when he had wanted to visit the Chamber. The Basilisk couldn't understand why he didn't just let it kill her, since they knew she was a Mudblood anyway. Tom, however, liked planning his attacks; he liked devising scenarios to lure his victims out, crafting stories for why they were there—like he had done with Perdita Pepper and Cyrus Quinn. It was like a game.

So at any other point, setting the Basilisk on Myrtle Warren would have been too spontaneous, lacking design. But he was desperate enough to succeed in at least one murder that he would do it now. There was some comfort in that he couldn't think of a better time to severely trouble the other students than the day before O.W.L.s began, and N.E.W.T.s for the seventh years. He greatly relished the thought of all those frightened, flustered students, who might very well see noticeable harm done to their exam scores—because of _him_.

...

Classes carried on, dinnertime arrived, and still no one had found the body. Tom was becoming impatient. Surely the Basilisk had killed this time; he hadn't hung around to check, but he'd heard her open the bathroom stall door, tell him to go away as he had already been leaving, and then there had been a sound he was quite certain had been her falling to the floor. Unless the Basilisk, for whatever spiteful reason it might have, had intentionally disobeyed him. Although, he wasn't sure it was even capable of that.

Midway through their meal, Professor Dippet rose from the faculty table and made his way towards the Slytherins, specifically, towards Tom. He stood to speak with the Headmaster.

"Riddle—Tom," said the Headmaster, "I know you begin your O.W.L. exams tomorrow, but might you be available later this evening, say, seven thirty? There is something I need to speak with you about."

"Yes, sir. Of course," Tom answered. Dippet nodded and turned away. "What—" he started to ask what the meeting was about.

"The password," said Professor Dippet, facing him again. "Demiguise." He spoke softly so no one else would hear; it came out a rasp. Before Tom could try again to ask him what he actually wanted to know, he had distractedly headed over to the Ravenclaw table, a worried look on his face. Tom watched him converse with a young girl at that table, who then left the Great Hall.

Professor Dippet had become even frailer and feebler since the attacks had started and, as Tom had no intention of stopping any time soon, was likely to weaken further. The only regret he felt about this was the prospect of losing a Headmaster who thought well of him—especially given he was almost certainly to be replaced by Professor Dumbledore, who did not think well of him.

However, while it wasn't Tom's wish to cease his Heir of Slytherin attacks, this request to meet with Professor Dippet made him slightly nervous. What if he suspected something? Probably, much more likely, it was about the letter Tom had sent to him, asking for permission to stay at Hogwarts over the summer, but… he couldn't be sure until the meeting took place. As the hours remaining dragged on, his eager thoughts to hear news of the dead girl in the first floor lavatory were replaced by dread at possibly being found out as the attacker. Getting expelled. Being forced to leave Hogwarts… In that moment, he couldn't imagine anything worse. Not even death.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I feel like the ending of the first part (Tom hears the Basilisk, leaves with Charlotte) is a little abrupt and not a great stopping point, but I wanted to save Tom's thoughts about it until later...

Demiguise is the password I chose because that's my favorite magical creature from the Fantastic Beasts movie, haha.

As always, I'm completely open to hearing any thoughts you have about this chapter or what you've read so far~


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note:** I've reached the point in the story where some things have to match up exactly with the original books. Since I divided this part from the previous chapter, this whole thing, except for a tiny bit at the end, is an altered version of what Harry sees in the Diary in chapter 13 of _Chamber of Secrets_ ("The Very Secret Diary"). I've kept the dialogue the same and I've only reworded the descriptions that were in the book, but I've added Tom's thoughts. So a lot of this will be familiar. This is the only time this kind of borrowing will happen in such a great quantity.

I did some debating about whether to take the version of events in the diary as the truth, because Voldemort could have changed them. I decided that enough of it seemed "raw", unedited, so to speak, that I felt it was what really happened. That is, I felt that at the time when I was writing; now I'm unsure again—but I don't want to go back and rewrite it... Anyway, I do think it's cool to compare what Harry sees with what may have been going on in Riddle's head. Feel free to share your thoughts on this with me. I might change some things later.

* * *

Tom knocked on the door to Professor Dippet's office. "Enter," came a feeble voice from within.

"Ah, Riddle."

"You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?" he asked in a voice a bit more anxious than he would have liked.

"Sit down," said Dippet. "I've just been reading the letter you sent me."

"Oh," he said, sitting in the chair before the desk. He kept his hands tensely locked together, not wanting to look suddenly relaxed at learning the reason for his summons there; Dippet didn't need to wonder what _else_ he might have been anticipating a meeting about.

"My dear boy," said Dippet in the kind tone he customarily used with Tom, "I cannot possibly let you stay at school over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?"

"No," answered Tom without pause. Home? He had never thought of the orphanage as a home. Hogwarts was much more a home than that place. Was Professor Dippet really so daft as to think— "I'd much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that—to that—" He truly did hate saying the word aloud.

"You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?"

"Yes, sir," Tom answered, unable to keep from showing his embarrassment and discomfort towards this fact. He could feel that he must have turned a shade of pink.

Professor Dippet, to his relief, offered no sympathetic remark; although, what he did say was almost worse. "You are Muggle-born?" he asked. What a ghastly thought that was. Thankfully, no. He at least had _some_ magical blood to claim.

"Half-blood sir," he answered. "Muggle father, witch mother."

"And are both your parents—?" They might as well both have been dead. His father was little more than a name to him—and besides that, a Muggle, who he didn't want anything to do with anyway.

"My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to name me—Tom after my father, Marvolo after my grandfather." There was no reason the Headmaster needed to know this. And especially he did not need to be reminded of the name Tom shared with a known descendant of Slytherin. He was starting to ramble when he spoke, saying unnecessary things from nervousness and distraction. Why couldn't Professor Dippet just get on with telling him that he could stay at Hogwarts—for he was still hopeful for that outcome. Dippet only made a sound with his tongue. Sympathy. Well, it was going to come up sooner or later…

"The thing is, Tom," he continued with a sigh, "special arrangements might have been made for you, but in the current circumstances…"

"You mean all the attacks, sir?" Tom asked, expertly keeping his voice disinterested, as casual as was necessary. But internally… He was struggling with the truth; he had damned himself to another summer at the orphanage. Was being the Heir of Slytherin worth it? He supposed, as awful as the orphanage was, it had been. But possibly only because he knew he would be able to get away for some time by visiting Charlotte.

"Precisely," said the headmaster. "My dear boy, you must see how foolish it would be of me to allow you to remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in light of the recent tragedy… the death of that poor little girl… You will be safer by far at your orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic is even now talking about closing the school. We are no nearer locating the—er—source of all this unpleasantness…"

It was far worse than he had thought. He might never be able to return to Hogwarts after that. He could not let such a thing happen. With his eyes wide, no longer trying to conceal his emotions, he spoke disjointedly, "Sir—if the person was caught—if it all stopped—"

"What do you mean?" asked Professor Dippet in squeaky shock, jolting up in his seat. "Riddle, do you mean you know something about these attacks?"

"No, sir," he answered quickly. Tom noticed there was no indication that Dippet believed this meant Tom himself was involved in the attacks. It would have given him more pleasure if he hadn't been so concerned trying to work out what he could do to assure everyone the attacks had stopped for good, where he could place the blame…

Dippet had sunk back in his chair, looking sad—a bit pathetic, really, to Tom's eyes.

"You may go, Tom…" he said.

Without a word, too busy thinking miserably about what he was going to do, Tom left the Headmaster's office. Not only did he have to stop the attacks, he had to find a suitable scapegoat as well. His ruminations on Rubeus Hagrid came back to him, even though he loathed the idea. He went from the room with his shoulders hanging low and a bit forward, his neck letting his head fall down in a similar manner. It was how he felt about the whole situation. Dejected. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he straightened himself up a little again and he stood there thinking about whether he really wanted to go through with framing the half-giant, and how he could go about doing it. Not that he had any choice really.

At the same time, however, he kept thinking: Charlotte. She had been out with him every night when there was an attack, and he could say that he had noticed her acting suspiciously. He would be able to say he hadn't brought it up before because of what she meant to him—it sounded like the kind of thing love would make someone do—but now that someone had died, he couldn't stay silent anymore. And she was pureblood, so that fit. The only problem with it was Slytherin's descendants were recorded well enough if one really looked, as were Charlotte's ancestors, to prove that she could not be the Heir of Slytherin. But if people were going to be that thorough in their investigation of the truth, Hagrid wouldn't pass for the culprit either. So Charlotte really was the best option. He set off down the hallway, still thinking about this. He kept his pace brisk until he reached the entrance hall and heard someone call his name.

He turned to see Dumbledore looking down at him from the marble staircase. He was more irritated than ever to run into the man, but kept his expression stoical.

"What are you doing, wandering around this late, Tom?"

"I had to see the headmaster, sir." _It was Charlotte_ —that was what he wanted to say to him. But something held him back.

A panic set in; this had to mean he'd let himself fall in love with her. He was doing the very thing he said he would not do. An opportunity to serve his own interests, with harm coming to Charlotte, and he was choosing her over himself.

"Well, hurry off to bed," Dumbledore said. With a pounding heart, Tom wondered, not for the first time, if Dumbledore suspected him. The expression on his face… He looked at him and it was so clear that he knew _something_ but it was impossible to discern what. Tom could have hated the man on that look alone, although he had given him plenty of other reasons to despise him. "Best not to roam the corridors these days. Not since…" He said nothing more, except a good night, which Tom did not return, accompanied by a deep sigh. Tom looked on as he walked away, thinking through his inability to point a finger at Charlotte.

Maybe his hesitation in blaming her was because it wouldn't work at all. His word was likely to be more convincing than hers, but the margin between them was nowhere near as great as was between his word and Hagrid's. And besides, he had just been dealt the blow of losing the option of staying at Hogwarts for the holidays; Charlotte was his only chance at getting away from the orphanage. Not to mention, meeting her father, and— He ran through all his usual reasons for having her as his girlfriend.

It had to be Hagrid then. He would have to wait to catch the boy, in the dungeons where he knew he kept his _pet._

Dumbledore had disappeared, and Tom began moving again, down to the dungeons, resolutely having made his decision about what he was doing. He reached a room and stopped, stepping into near complete darkness. It was, he realized, the room Charlotte had dragged him into the day he had been formally introduced to Oliver Winship. He waited, staring straight ahead through the narrow space left between the door and its frame. He spent the time—he didn't know how long it was—thinking of what he would say to Hagrid once he caught him. He amused himself with imaginings of making fierce declarations of his loathing for the half-giant. He knew, however, that it was wiser to act as though Hagrid were somewhat innocent in the matter, instead, blaming in a believable way the beast he kept.

Finally, Rubeus showed up. As Tom knew he would. He couldn't let his little friend go hungry, could he? With a smirk, he opened the door wide enough to slip through, and then quietly set off down the passage, following Hagrid.

It was so dark that he couldn't see the boy very well, even despite his gargantuan stature; so, after trailing him for several minutes, sound served to tell Tom that his target had moved to the side of the passage and was opening a door.

"C'mon… gotta get yeh outta here… C'mon now… in the box…" How convenient the boy was trying to hide his beast away elsewhere. Very incriminating.

Hagrid didn't notice him, even as he revealed himself in the corridor, until he spoke. "Evening, Rubeus," he said sharply.

Slamming the door and standing up, Hagrid answered anxiously, "What yer doin' down here, Tom?"

He took a step forward. "It's all over. I'm going to have to turn you in, Rubeus. They're talking about closing the Hogwarts if the attacks don't stop."

"What d'yeh—"

Tom didn't let him finish. "I don't think you meant to kill anyone." With a little luck, the boy might believe it that he was responsible. That was what Tom hoped. "But monsters don't make good pets. I suppose you just let it out for exercise and—"

"It never killed no one!" Rubeus backed into the door. It seemed he was going to defend his beast.

"Come on, Rubeus," Tom said, stepping closer, ignoring the sounds of the spider he knew was behind the door. "The dead girl's parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered…" He continued to try to drive some doubt into him.

"It wasn't him!" Hagrid roared, causing the passageway to echo with his cry. "He wouldn't! He never!" How could he possibly know that? Just went to show what a fool the boy was.

"Stand aside." Tom drew his wand. With a spell, he blasted open the door Rubeus was guarding, throwing the boy across the hall and into the wall opposite. In that moment the hall was far from dark, aglow with the magic Tom had used, and it illuminated the spider as it scuttled from the room. It was black and looked like a shadow—a shadow that made clicking sounds with its pincers and legs, and had eyes that caught the light and glinted.

He stood his ground against the massive creature, although even he had to admit it was fearsome. He raised his wand again, but the spider, making its escape, knocked him over as it went past. Tom hurried to get up as quickly as he could, but the spider was already disappearing around the corner. He would have gone after it—his plan would go better with proof of the monster Hagrid kept—but the boy jumped on him with all his force, pulling his wand from his hand, and shoving him to ground again. "NOOOOOOO!" he yelled.

The ferocity of the attack came as a shock to Tom. It seemed Hagrid actually cared about the spider; maybe it was some sort of beastly kindred spirit feeling. He sat up angrily. "Now look what you've done! You've let it get away, to attack someone else!" Although Tom didn't care in the slightest whether the spider hurt anyone.

"He wouldn'a run off if you hadn't come along!" Hagrid sniffed. He seemed calmer now, satisfied that he had stopped Tom from hurting the spider.

Tom climbed to his feet, grabbed his wand back, and looked down at the half-giant, who was still as tall crouching down as some human students. "Get up," he snarled. "We have to tell someone."

They walked down the corridor in silence, Tom listening for the telltale sounds of clicking or scuttling, but only hearing Hagrid's muffled, heaving sobs behind him. He whirled around. "Will you stop that?! I can't think."

"He told me there was somethin' in the castle, somethin' that frightened him…"

"Did he say what?" asked Tom, alarmed, but not sounding so.

"Too scared, he was." There was a pause, followed by another great sniff. "An' now he's all on his own…"

"He was probably worried he was going to have to share his room with it, if you got your hands on it," Tom said unkindly. Rubeus didn't reply, but shuffled on behind Tom until they arrived at Professor Slughorn's office.


	27. Chapter 27

In the end, they found a broken window in the entrance hall, and concluded the spider was long gone. Rubeus Hagrid was sent up to the headmaster's office, along with Tom, to say his piece. Tom was sent back to bed; Hagrid, Tom assumed, would be sent to pack. He didn't get to stay to hear the ending of the discussion, but that wasn't much of a loss, as he didn't think he could take much more of Hagrid's insistent pleas that "Aragog" was innocent.

* * *

Charlotte couldn't sleep. She knew she needed the rest, but how was she supposed to sleep when someone had just died—been _killed_ —at her school? They didn't know who had done it; they didn't even have any idea. She didn't see how they could keep Hogwarts open after this, although she wished with all her heart there was some way around it.

She finally felt like she belonged at Hogwarts; she thought less of Beauxbatons and France in the last month than she had previously in a single week. And now it was a real possibility that she would be returning there, if they closed Hogwarts. But how could they? Where were all the students to go? How were they to get their education? The school just couldn't be closed.

And what about Tom? Would he be forced to return to his dreaded orphanage? He clearly despised the place, and she felt so sorry for him. He deserved better.

He'd had a difficult time talking about it,—she wasn't surprised by that—but he had; Tom had confided in her a little about his childhood. She could see how lonely he must have been, even if he denied it—how lonely he might still be. But surely if anyone had the ability to make him happier, it was her.

And what if the school was closed and they couldn't be together? She knew it was a bit egocentric to worry about how she and her boyfriend would be together when someone had just lost their life in all of this. But she couldn't help it. Besides she wasn't only thinking about herself; she was thinking about Tom. Closer to him than anyone else had probably ever gotten, she needed to stay with him.

Although, something troubled her from their conversation that day. She'd noticed Tom had sounded far from enthusiastic about the idea of a family. He had been speaking about a potential family of Muggles, so of course that was different. But she couldn't help wondering if sometimes he felt the same way about her. What she wanted to be to him, it involved all the closeness that he pushed back against.

Maybe he did wish he had a family, only he couldn't say it. Still, that saddened her because it meant she wasn't yet close enough to him that he felt comfortable sharing those feelings.

She was finally getting tired enough that not even the noise of her thoughts could keep her awake. She fell asleep hoping, again, that somehow the attacks would stop and Hogwarts would remain open, thinking that she would give just about anything to make it so.

* * *

With the first of his O.W.L.s that day, Tom wanted to be as well rested as possible; that meant making a late entrance to breakfast, and having the stares of curious students fall on him as he made his way to an empty seat at the Slytherin table. They wouldn't know that he was the reason they weren't all to be on the train home that very day, but he made certain they felt something when they looked at him. He didn't slink around the edge of the hall ashamed of his tardiness; he walked confidently by, the others looking up at him in wonder.

Only one person looked at him in a way that did not please him. And that was Charlotte.

It seemed like she might have leaped up from her spot and run to him, although he had no idea why she would be possessed of such fervent emotion. He glanced at his usual group for a place to sit, saw them look at Charlotte and then around at each other, then scoot further apart so there would be no room for him. They thought it was _funny_. How dare they—

He contained the thought before it showed on his face, and calmly carried on towards Charlotte. As he sat down next to her, she summoned a plate from down the table—where he _should_ have been seated—and started getting food for him. Did she think he was a child?

"What are you doing? Stop! I can get my own food."

"Sorry." She embarrassedly let the piece of toast she was holding fall onto his plate. "I just wanted to make sure you got breakfast; the past couple of days you've not been eating as much…" She quickly recovered her dignity. "Besides, you always have the same thing."

"Please, you two, stop being so cute; I'm trying to study." Valeria's voice came from behind _Intermediate Transfiguration_.

"It's a bit late for that, don't you think?" Tom said.

She swung her book down. "It's not too late until the test starts. And this is for _tomorrow's_ exam anyway." She raised the book again.

Charlotte laughed a little at her friend, and then turned back to Tom. "I asked your friends where you were; Mulciber told me you were still asleep." She leaned towards him and spoke so only he would hear. "I got the impression some of them were surprised I didn't know you had been out late last night." He wondered why she mentioned this, but was preoccupied. While they were on the subject of 'his friends', Tom took the opportunity to look in the boys' direction and, without Charlotte seeing, give them all harsh stares to tell them how immensely displeased he was; if they knew what was good for them, they would always make sure he didn't 'have to' sit with his girlfriend unless he wanted to.

Charlotte continued, "But then Avery said it was something else, that you'd… helped catch the attacker. I didn't know if I should belief him. Is it true?"

He nodded. "I'll tell you more about it later. I can't say much here because I'm not really supposed to be talking about it."

"And you need to finish eating," she teased.

...

Everyone was so quick to believe him about Rubeus Hagrid. He was almost offended; for them to think that that beast-crazed half-giant, who wasn't even in Slytherin, could be the Heir—it was absurd. Why they failed to see this, he could only guess. They were so desperate to put the attacks behind them, they practically queued up with accusations of their own against Hagrid. He had expected at least a little bit of incredulity at his accusation.

It was a relief, however, that there was no need for memory modification of any kind. Trying this kind of magic on the head teachers would be too risky; they were too adept at defending themselves against such an attempt. But he wished very much, if he could change the thoughts of just one member of staff, that Dumbledore would forget his suspicions about Tom. This was the least likely of all to happen.

The fact that Dumbledore seemed to have doubts about Hagrid's guilt and Tom's honesty made him uneasy, but he was more disturbed that the Professor took very little action against him. What was he waiting for? It didn't make sense; Tom couldn't understand.

Walking down the first floor corridor, happening to pass the girls' lavatory, Tom heard a noise. It sounded very much like crying, very much like a girl who used to cry there sometimes, very much like a girl who was supposed to be dead.

He could hear it plainly; there was no mistaking the sound. But how?

Had he lost his mind? A brief moment of real fear crept over him before his mind offered a rational explanation: Myrtle Warren had become a ghost.

His first thought was extreme concern that she might remember what killed her, be able to dispute it having been Rubeus Hagrid's spider, or that she might recognize his voice. Then, added to that, was the annoyance that she would make it exceedingly difficult to visit the Chamber because the usual spell he used to make sure the room was empty only worked on living humans. He may have had to give up attacking Mudbloods, but Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets was still a place he wanted access to. He intended to use it to make his first Horcrux.

He wanted to go in and resolve at least some of these problems, but of course he couldn't. At least he hadn't gone mad. As he set off again down the passage, he tried to think of ways he could get Charlotte to talk to the ghost and get the information he wanted, as well as how to make sure Myrtle wasn't around at some point so he could go to the Chamber and create a Horcrux. That wouldn't be for a while, however; he hadn't finished all his preparations for making the Horcrux yet.

It would be incorrect to say he wasn't ready. He wanted to do it as soon as possible, now that he had completed the first step: splitting his soul. But he was still undecided about what object to use… He wanted it to be something special, something valuable—a historic magical artifact would be ideal, although he didn't think he could get his hands on any of those at the present time. He didn't have many possessions of his own, and all of them were common items, meaningless to him. …The book Charlotte had given him for his birthday had beauty, but he would _not_ preserve a piece of his soul in something that would seem like a relic of their love.

A high pitched voice echoed down the hall from behind him. "Tom Riddle." He turned slowly to see Myrtle's ghostly form bobbing up and down in the center of the hallway.

"Hello." He spoke with strained politeness. "We've never spoken before. Do you need something?"

"Oh, no. I just wanted to say hello. I didn't think you'd actually answer me…"

"Oh." Well, it seemed she had no inkling that he was her murderer. That was a plus to this conversation. Then he thought of another way to make it advantageous to him.

"Say, Myrtle, would you mind doing me a favor?"

Her eyes widened behind her large glasses. "Me? What can _I_ do for _you?_ "

"Since you're a ghost, you'll be able to deliver a message much more quickly. Would you tell Charlotte Soleil that I'd like to study Herbology with her tomorrow after our exam? I'll see her in a little while, so you don't need to tell me what she says, just pass the message on."

"Charlotte Soleil…" He thought she looked a little disappointed at this—all the better. He knew including Charlotte in this was a good idea. Naturally she, like all the other pathetically longing girls, was envious of his girlfriend.

"You know who she is, don't you? You'll probably find her in the Slytherin common room."

"But—but I'm a Ravenclaw! I can't go in there!"

"Technically you aren't a Hogwarts student anymore." She stared back at him miserably; he tried to frame it more positively. "As a ghost, you can go anywhere you like. Will you do this for me, Myrtle, please?" He smiled, fully in his element now, charming as ever.

"Yes, alright. For you," she answered with a bashful smile.

He smirked to himself as she sped away. He never should have doubted that he would be able to overcome the challenge of getting back into the Chamber of Secrets. In fact, it had hardly been a challenge at all. Myrtle had been more than happy to carry out his invented task.

He now rushed back to confront the Basilisk about its whispering the other day when he had been with Charlotte, this being his first opportunity to do so.

As he climbed down into the Chamber, he had the unpleasant realization that he had had no specific reason for leaving the hallway so quickly when he had heard the voice; he'd simply felt a strong inclination to get away. Had he been worried about Charlotte's safety, fearing that the Basilisk might go through with its threat? But with him right there, how could it? It would risk killing him as well. More importantly, however, if that had been his motivation, it made it less doubtful that he loved Charlotte.

Then a little voice in his head reminded him his view on love had changed; he'd thought to himself, holding Charlotte's hand, maybe he did love her, and maybe that wasn't a problem.

His judgment had to have been clouded by Charlotte's presence, by Charlotte's touch. Now he was appalled at himself for having considered such a thing. He had given in to the weakness. But given time, he knew he could rectify it—hopefully in a short time span.

He had made it to the Chamber, and the Basilisk was before him. He put the matter out of his mind until he could address it later.

" _'She doesn't matter to me'—what was that about_?" he demanded.

" _You said it."_ He felt like the serpent was dismissively shrugging, although it had no shoulders to make the motion.

" _Yes, and you came out of nowhere repeating it—why?_ "

" _I thought you could do with a reminder, if that'ss the truth_."

" _I knew what I was doing. You're intrusion was uncalled for._ "

" _You truly think yourself so superior that you don't need anybody else. You are the Heir of Slytherin, but that doess not mean you mussst isolate yoursself._ " Tom, glaring at the snake, wondered what made it say this, why it cared. It spoke again. " _In fact… if there is to be another Heir you'll have to take a mate_."

He only just held himself back from undignified spluttering; there were many things he was vehemently inclined to say—shout, rather, at the Basilisk. Reactions whirled around in his mind chaotically.

To call it a _mate_ , like he was some sort of animal. That the Basilisk would suggest he and Charlotte— It was unnecessary anyway. Yes he _did_ think himself so superior. It was almost made a fact; he would be immortal and there would no need of another Heir. He felt himself burning with rage. And he was nauseated by the thought of— _everything_ the Basilisk had said. If he threw up, at least it might insult the snake, especially if he vomited intentionally a bit too close to it. But that was too disgusting… Although not as disgusting as—

" _You're wrong_!" he bellowed, finally managing to say something. It was a weak defense, but he would improve it. At least he hadn't started out by roaring profanities, as had been one of his first thoughts. He had intended to continue, but the Basilisk interrupted.

" _Unlesss you want to add 'ended the line of Slytherin' to your great accomplishmentss—"_

He pointed his wand at the Basilisk. Channeling all his wrath, he yelled, "Crucio!" The serpent writhed in pain, making sounds he didn't know a snake could make. In almost incoherent speech, it begged him to stop. He found it incredibly satisfying. The first time he had used the Cruciatus Curse. It filled him with power and he could think of nothing else. When he released the Basilisk from its torture, it slithered far away from him and his mouth twisted into a smile.

" _I warned you of what I would do if you ever angered me! You've had your punishment. Now you will listen._ " The Basilisk said nothing. Fine. _"No one has ever truly conquered death. Some have tried,—I will become one of them—but I will be the most successful, outlasting their attempts; I will be immortal. In which case, your allegiance is mine forever. I will be the most powerful wizard the world has ever known. And I will have no need of companionship, friends or lovers._ "

" _You are ambitioussss,_ " was all the snake could say.

Tom smiled darkly. " _Yes. And what I say I will do, I do. So, if you ever cause any interference for me again, you can expect to suffer for it_."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I've barely written anything from Charlotte's perspective in the last five chapters... Next chapter should be a lot from her though. Also it will be coming it a few days time, again because it was supposed to be part of this chapter, but got too long.

I think I figured out why I like writing the scenes with the Basilisk. There, Tom doesn't have to act; he's himself, his cruel and frightening self. And it's the only time he feels provoked to lash out and can do so. No one else would talk to him the way the Basilisk does. It's a way to explore some of his fears and insecurities, too. (Kinda weird to say that even he has insecurities, but I think it's true.)

Also I realized I should have mentioned the diary way earlier, and multiple times. Because now it's just going to be this random thing that shows up when he makes it into a Horcrux _—_ like, "yes, this was important all along but never brought up!". Oh well. I could go back and add it, I guess. I'm still not entirely sure why he chooses the diary either. Dumbledore says something like "It was proof he was the Heir of Slytherin. I think it would have been very important to him." But it's also a Muggle thing, and the only way I can see it relating to being the Heir of Slytherin is if he used it to keep track of when the attacks would be. Sooo? I don't know. Maybe I'll just invent some reason.


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Note:** Well, this chapter might feel a bit short. The writing process for this one was kind of rocky. I also don't think I like it very much, and usually I'm very happy with chapters after I finish them. It might be because I just finished a really good book and now everything is meh by comparison, in which case you all won't have the same view. Or it could be something else. More on that at the end.

But at least I am on time with when I said I would update!

* * *

"I can't believe it was Hagrid all along. You were right about him." In an empty classroom, Charlotte was perched on a desk, Herbology textbooks stacked behind her, with Tom leaning back against another across from her.

"Maybe he didn't intend for the attacks to happen," he said.

"How could they not be intentional if he was the Heir of Slytherin?"

"Maybe he wasn't. Maybe this having anything to do with Slytherin was a misunderstanding. Maybe, like you said before, there is no Heir of Slytherin at all, or if there is, this wasn't his work." He frowned. "But regardless, it was a terrible thing for him to bring a giant spider into the school, and try to look after it like some sort of pet. No one with sense would do anything like that."

Charlotte nodded. Tom had known all along that trouble would come of having Rubeus Hagrid around, while she had made some defense for him. She thought she ought to listen to him more in future. "And what did he do when you tried to take it away?"

Tom snorted. "Tried to protect it. He jumped on me, pushed me over." He reached his a hand up and touched his fingertips to his face. "I got a nasty bruise, but Madam Beauregard took care of it." Charlotte leaned forward, balancing on the edge of the desk, and placed her hand on his.

"It was very brave of you," she said in a whisper. He smiled a little bit, taking her hand as he dropped his from his face. He stood up and came towards her.

"I thought about you," he said softly. "I wanted you to be safe. Remember how I said I wouldn't let anything happen to you?"

"You mean on the night Owen Rochester was petrified?" She asked, specifically avoiding saying ' _the night we were caught_ '.

"Mmhmm," he said embracing her. "I had to keep my promise," he whispered, leaning the side of his face against her head.

"Well I do feel much safer now—thanks to you." She leaned back to look at him. "It's strange, I was thinking about you, probably around the same time, thinking about how I was afraid Hogwarts would close and— all the consequences of that. I hoped that somehow it wouldn't happen, although I didn't believe it was likely that it would be averted. And at the same time you were doing just that. It seems kind of… miraculous." He didn't say anything, but smiled as she spoke.

"There's been something on my mind since our conversation on Sunday when we left the Great Hall," she continued.

"Oh?"

"It left me wondering about... you and I, in the future. Is it just the idea of a _Muggle_ family that you find unappealing? Or—" Tom had been leaning forward and now cut her off, putting his lips on hers.

He moved his mouth next to her ear to whisper, "I love you, Charlotte. And what I know right now is that I want to be with you. Don't ever doubt that." He specified nothing about the future, but that was understandable; they were too young to make commitments like that. It wouldn't have mattered if he had.

But the words ' _don't ever doubt that_ ', she took them to heart; never doubt his love. She wouldn't. "I love you too, Tom," she whispered.

Letting go of her, he moved to sit behind her on the desk. He wrapped his arm around her waist and she fell back across his lap. A chair slid towards them, beneath Charlotte's feet for her to comfortably rest her legs on. She smiled up at Tom, her head on the stack of books. "What about family aside from me? There's my relatives, and…" she felt herself blushing; she didn't know quite why she was saying it, but she had to finish the sentence now. "The family we could have."

She'd glanced away as she spoke; when she looked at him again, he was staring directly ahead of him, his forehead creased and a flash of anger fading. He must have been thinking about his own parents leaving him in that orphanage. She should have been more sensitive in bringing up this subject. Trying to think of what to say, she instead practically breathed a sigh of relief when, the storm cloud over him clearing, he turned back to her and said with a laughing smile, "I'd say we're a bit young to be thinking about that, don't you?"

She gave a small shrug. "To be considering having children, yes. But to imagine whether we might want children, I don't think so."

He continued to smile, but his eyes showed a more complex response. More emotions than Charlotte could read. He wasn't keen on that idea either, that much she could tell. He dropped his gaze and his smile. "You've never imagined yourself as a father?" she asked, hoping she had misunderstood his reaction.

"How would I know what a father is like, seeing as I've never had one?" He didn't say it as icily as she would have imagined, but there was a bitterness there.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"I'm not hurt, Charlotte," he said, before she could finish her apology. "Don't say or think any more on it. I'm not as sensitive as you assume." He acted so strong, but she wanted to know what he truly felt. "You've imagined yourself as a mother, then?" he asked quietly, after a pause.

"I've never thought that I wouldn't someday be a mother. And, being my parents' only child, I feel a responsibility, as strange as that might sound, to continue the family."

"I don't think that sounds very strange," Tom answered gently, leaning on his arm to be closer to her. "Your family has history, a bloodline—you don't want to lose that." Charlotte nodded. Tom was studying her face and she knew she must look troubled to him; she wanted to preserve her family's legacy and she wanted to be with him, but she could not have both in exactly the way she wanted. They'd never spoken about this, even though she was sure he had to be aware it would come up eventually, if they stayed together and things became more serious. It wasn't truly that serious of a relationship yet, but she didn't see reason to assume it wouldn't evolve. They already cared so deeply for each other, and given time…

"You're thinking that you can't have me and maintain your pureblood family tree, aren't you?"

She sighed. "Yes, and I don't know what to do about it."

"You— _we_ don't have to do anything about it right now. It doesn't affect us at the moment. There's no reason to worry about it."

But there was something she hadn't told him yet. "It might affect us soon," she said.

"Meaning? This summer, with your parents? Your mother seemed to like me, well enough to invite me to visit. And your father, from what you've told me, wouldn't mind as much as she would."

Charlotte sat up. "I haven't explicitly mentioned that you aren't a pureblood, so it's very possible her view will change when that fact becomes known."

Tom straightened back up too. "She knows my name and, I believe, you told her where I live. Surely they've worked it out?"

He was right, but his assumption still rested on unstable ground. "I wouldn't be so certain of that." She twisted around to face him. "There's always been an unspoken understanding that I would marry another pureblood; that's true of most every pureblood family. I don't think they would anticipate that I would go against that. _I_ didn't anticipate it. Yet here I am."

"But I haven't asked you to marry me. I don't see what the problem is." His usual calm demeanor was fading.

" _The problem is_ they'll say I'm wasting my time on you. And I would have to agree with them because I would be better off loving someone else, who I could feasibly spend my life with." She didn't want to get hurt; she didn't want to put herself in that situation, having to lose him but still loving him. The house of cards was already built, however, and there was no dismantling it, gently, without knocking it down, unless Tom made himself unlovable somehow, which she didn't imagine could happen. She was feeling incredibly conflicted; something she'd lived her whole life accepting was now problematic and yet she was clinging to it. Suddenly, she burst out, "It's really a silly thing—blood purity. It's not even measurable, not really, and it doesn't seem to have any effect on one's magical ability. But you know what's mad?" She almost shouted this. "I still think I would feel guilty and upset with myself if I was the one in my family to throw that legacy away." She looked at Tom, feeling like she had betrayed him. To her surprise, he was gazing back at her with a sympathetic smile.

"I would feel guilty for being the one to make you do it," he said slowly. "It does seem like a wretched thing—to be the one to break that tradition after who knows how many years…" His eyes were still on her, but they weren't looking at her, weren't seeing her. He seemed upset, both angered and saddened. Charlotte hated the thought that he was feeling this way because of her. He shook himself out of whatever thoughts he had been having, refocusing on her.

She reached for his hand. "It's easy to forget you aren't pureblood; you act like one of us, you think like one of us—sometimes you seem more pureblood than I do," she laughed. However, even as she made a joke out of it, she felt upset by this, wanting to live up to expectations.

Tom smiled. "I take that as a compliment. Thank you." He watched her expression as she felt her regret and then said, "But you are _meant_ _to be_ a magnificent, pureblood lady—and you _can_ be, I see that. You will make your parents proud of you, and all your ancestors before, if they knew." It was so easy to believe when he said it.

She leaned closer to him. "And you? Can you be the exception to the rule?"

"I am the exception to the rule," he repeated back to her.

* * *

It had been one of the worst—if not _the worst_ —conversation he'd had with Charlotte to date.

Having a family—children _,_ even. The problematic pureblood ideology. The entire thing oozing love. A whole slew of troublesome topics, some of them utterly revolting.

He started up another flight of stairs, on his way to the owlery now, just for something to do. He had no letters to send, but no one needed to know that.

Discussing hypothetical children wouldn't have been so bad—because obviously it wasn't going to happen; only she wasn't aware of that yet—except the Basilisk's awful speech rung in his ears as Charlotte spoke about it. The same suggestion the Basilisk had made, coming back to haunt him. When they'd spoken about history and family legacies, too, he'd been reminded of words he'd rather have forgotten: the Basilisk's presumption that through him Slytherin's descendants would cease to exist.

He passed by some Hufflepuffs on the staircase landing.

' _You've never imagined yourself as a father?_ ' He had implied to Charlotte that the answer was no; however, a memory came to him now—cloudy, unfamiliar, as though it came from another's life. But he was certain it had really happened, because he wouldn't have invented it for himself.

He'd once, perhaps more than once, while sitting alone at the orphanage, thought to himself, 'I would never let this happen to my child. When I'm grown up and I have a wife and she has a baby, I won't _abandon_ it. Never...' That was a long time ago. A very long time ago. It later changed from _when_ to _if_ and then to _Why?_ 'Why would I raise a child?'. But it had once been 'when', he supposed because that was what the world expected. ' _When you become mummies and daddies..._ ', children, even orphans, were told. But now he'd learned that the expectations of others were irrelevant; only his own will mattered.

He reached the top of the tower where the owlery was. Some other students were there, but they wouldn't bother him. He went over to one of the windows and stared out over the darkened school grounds.

There had been something else as well. The thought that his mother had done exactly what Charlotte described. Only _she_ had allowed a _muggle_ to be the father of her child, which was far, far worse. He'd had to keep all this confined to his mind, showing as little of it in his expressions as possible, because he couldn't tell Charlotte that he knew who his mother and her family had been. Thinking about this had been another reason the conversation had been particularly unpleasant—although he felt he could commend himself on making it not appear so unpleasant to Charlotte; he had been loving, sympathetic, engaged in their conversation, caring. When he heard others talk about love, he thought they were foolish and weak; when he heard himself talk about love, he knew that he wasn't.

He didn't stay very long in the owlery, not much enjoying the company of some several hundred owls, especially at night when they were more active.

He was surprised it had taken so long for the conflict to arise between Charlotte's love for him, a half-blood, and her pureblood family expectations. Yet for all the extra time he'd had to prepare, he hadn't come up with much to convince her pureblood ideology was right and that she could also allow herself to love him.

The approach he had taken earlier had been to make her feel absolutely comfortable with being pureblood, really see herself as part of something greater, and make that a part of her identity. That way she didn't begin to doubt it for his sake. He wanted her to believe it because it was the ideology he was seeking to promote—even though he didn't fully believe it himself. How could he? He wasn't pureblood, and yet he aimed to become an immensely powerful wizard, the _most_ powerful wizard.

Power was all he wanted, but he needed an ideal to promote, for people to stand with him on, to allow him to take over. The logical choice was wizard supremacy; clearly, as demonstrated by the effect Grindelwald was having, that was a topic that could gain support. Everyone enjoys being told they're superior, that they have some right over others. The purebloods were already used to having this kind of aristocratic right, and were only too eager to listen to someone encouraging them. And if he couldn't convince Charlotte of this idea, how could he expect to convince others effectively?

* * *

 **Author's Note:** What I think is a major contributing factor to the very lackluster vibe I'm getting from this chapter is Charlotte's inconsistency in her views on being pureblood. I should have brought that up sooner and more often. Plus in this chapter, I think I may have made her too aware of the flaws in her logic. Also I'll admit I haven't had the clearest idea of what she's thinking, where she's at in her beliefs about it, throughout my writing of this story. It could do with some work, for sure.

However, I have some very good (at least I think) things planned for upcoming chapters! Don't worry, I haven't totally lost the thread of the story!


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's Note:** A short chapter, my apologies. I like this one at least though.

* * *

The Ancient Runes exam, the last for the first week, went fairly well Charlotte felt. She finished with a bit of time to spare, during which she studied for some of the O.W.L.s she had remaining, mainly Potions, as it was next. When the test was over, she waited to see if Tom would join her to walk back to the common room, but he seemed to be in conversation with one of the examiners, so she left on her own. One flight of stairs down, amid the stream of students moving in the opposite direction, she spotted Oliver. He saw her too, making eye contact and immediately trying to make his way over to her. She had been avoiding him whenever she saw him ever since she'd left him and his friends at their table in The Three Broomsticks. With term ending soon, there was little opportunity left to make amends, and if something was not said before then, the likelihood of her ever seeing him again decreased considerably; for that reason, she stayed put and waited to hear what he would say.

"Charlotte," he greeted her. "Glad you didn't run off this time."

"I hope I'll be glad of it too," she answered expectantly.

He sighed. "Look, I don't know what to say except I'm sorry that that happened, but I want us to talk about it. I don't like the thought of you resenting me forever and me not even knowing why."

Charlotte gave one small nod, and then, looking around at the people moving past, some giving them annoyed looks for being in the way, said, "Somewhere else?"

"Right," Oliver said. "There should be an empty classroom around here somewhere." Charlotte followed him down the hallway until they found a place to talk.

"Was it that thing I said about Tom?" Oliver asked as they stepped into a room, leaving the door open.

"No." At first she couldn't even remember what he had said, but then recalled the suggested attempt at provoking Tom's jealousy, to see if it was there still.

"Oh, that's good then. I thought that could be why you were avoiding me."

"No," she said again. She was slightly annoyed he didn't even realize the reason she had been so upset. Yet after thinking this, she realized, as she tried to tell him that reason, she wasn't sure of it herself.

"We can't get anywhere if you won't say anything more about it," he said. "I'm sorry I don't know what to apologize for, but I want to know so it doesn't happen again."

"None of you said anything to contradict him!" Charlotte blurted. "You're Gryffindors—courageous. But you didn't defend me, so that means… you agree with him." She'd found the reason.

Oliver stayed silent for a while. "Not agree, exactly… but it didn't seem wrong either—don't get angry and leave," he said quickly. Charlotte stayed, but instinctively folded her arms in disapproval. "I won't lie; sometimes we make jokes about purebloods. It doesn't affect any of us, so your reaction caught us off-guard. But of course it makes complete sense and it wouldn't happen again, if there were ever the chance that it might," he said, ending in a tone that spoke of sadness. He had to be thinking of how he and his friends would soon be leaving Hogwarts.

"I suppose that even though graduation is a momentous, exciting occasion, it's sad too, isn't it?" she said, content to change the subject.

"It's definitely sad. I'll miss everyone here—the castle itself too, it's like a second home. I'll miss spending time in the common room with the other Gryffindors, the mealtimes together; I'll even miss the panicked last minute studying before an exam," he laughed and then became serious again. "I know that I won't ever be in a place like this again. It makes you almost not want to leave, you know?"

"I hadn't thought about it like that. I've never thought that far ahead." She then hurried to correct herself, "Well I have thought that far ahead, but not about that in particular."

"So, is my apology accepted?" Oliver asked, returning to their original topic.

"I guess." Charlotte shrugged, not wanting to think about it anymore, but she smiled at him.

"Good," he said. "I want us to stay friends even after I leave Hogwarts."

Her smile grew. "I'd like that too. I want to hear about all the dark wizards you'll have saved us from."

"I think I have to train quite a bit before I get to that point."

"Well hopefully we'll be friends for that long, and beyond that."

They were both grinning in silence looking at each other when Tom walked by.

He came from the wrong direction when Charlotte noticed him, so he must have gone past, seen them, or her at least, and decided to come back. He stood in the doorway shifting his gaze between them. "Do you have permission to use this room?"

"Tom," Charlotte laughed. He couldn't be serious. She looked at him; he didn't appear to be joking. His jaw was set, his eyebrows slightly raised, eyes boring into her. Not much different from how he looked when he admonished noisy first years in the common room.

"The two of you alone in a classroom—people could get the wrong idea."

"People, like you?" Charlotte said, now realizing what she was dealing with. "That would be the _wrong_ idea alright."

"The door's wide open. Anybody can see we're just talking. We just wanted someplace quiet and out of people's way," said Oliver.

Charlotte turned fully towards Tom. "That's right. If we wanted to do anything else, we would close the door. You know that." She flirted with him in the hopes that any unjustified thoughts of suspicion would be cast out of his mind, although she didn't expect he would like that it was in front of Oliver. Tom didn't say anything, but one side of his mouth curved up.

"Should I go and close the door behind me?" Oliver asked with a laugh, but also with a tenseness that suggested he was uncomfortable; Charlotte had thought, because he was friends with Elliot and Elizabeth, he wouldn't have been bothered too much by a comment like that. She turned towards him looking apologetic.

"We're going," Tom said. "Or—" he corrected himself, "I'm going. Back to the common room. Charlotte, you're welcome to join me." She agreed, with the intention of, along the way, making Tom understand that he didn't need to do things like that, and that she would be happier if he didn't. But somehow she couldn't find the words. Tom, evidently not interested in discussing the event, walked most of the way in silence, making small talk only.

* * *

The last day of term. That would be the day.

Tom was reluctant to create the Horcrux while there remained any great length of time that he would be at Hogwarts that year. He'd realized he wasn't certain how apparent the physical effects of having made the Horcrux would be, and the last thing he wanted was for anyone to figure out what he had done. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. It was too dangerous.

The object—whatever it was; he still hadn't decided—would stay in the Chamber of Secrets, the only place where he knew it would be safe for the time being. But what could he use? He had considered taking something from Hogwarts, something that wouldn't go amiss, but stealing something just to steal didn't suit him; it had to represent something more.

Something commonplace had to have its advantages, he tried to convince himself. An ordinary object wouldn't draw attention, making it easier to hide. He irritatedly concluded that was a moot point, however, because he didn't want to hide the Horcruxes he would make in plain sight; that was not enough protection for something in which he would keep a piece of his soul.

A piece of himself… which would carry with it his own will, to some extent, but with the right enhancements… It could be made to do even more than ensure his immortality. He knew that Horcruxes had the potential to possess people, if a person became attached enough to the object. It required more thought, but he might be able to use such a method to reopen the Chamber of Secrets, to forgo passing the task of Heir on to another—a child that he didn't want nor saw himself ever having.

While he thought about this, he was rearranging things inside his school trunk, packing while he had time now, rather than after exams, because he needed all his spare time then to make the Horcrux. Again, he agitatedly wondered what it should be. The pressure of time was making it difficult for him to think calmly about it, but he knew that this was an unchangeable decision, irrevocable into eternity, if everything went to plan—which he did not doubt that it would—and therefore needed to be taken very seriously. So he tried to be levelheaded, dulling the overexcitement and eagerness he felt when he considered that he would soon have made a Horcrux, something very few, if even more than one, other wizards had done.

He reached into the bottom of the trunk and pulled out a small, nondescript, black book with the year embossed on the cover. The diary he'd purchased on Vauxhall Road with some pocket money from the orphanage. He would have much preferred a diary made for a wizard, as they sold in Flourish and Blotts, but had chosen to spend the funds given to him by Hogwarts on other things. Aside from his name on the first page, he'd never written in it. By the time 1943, the year for which it was intended, came around, he'd forgotten he had it. He'd discovered he could make his own with magic and had done so, using that to keep track of assignments, when he would spend time with Charlotte, as well as the dates on which he planned attacks; this muggle diary couldn't have been used for that, anyway.

Tossing the diary onto a pile of other items he intended to discard, his thoughts returned to Horcruxes. How could he entice someone to form the kind of bond that was needed for controlling that person, with something seemingly inanimate? It needed a way to communicate; possessed of his ability to charm and persuade, the soul fragment would surely be able to achieve its end.

Having done all he could towards packing, he closed the trunk and moved to collect the things he had laid aside. Then, looking at the diary, it struck him. The pages could be written on and the diary could answer back. And the diary was exactly the kind of easily concealable object that could be carried around without raising suspicion, making it ideal for giving to someone to return to Hogwarts with and eventually reopen the Chamber. Everything fell into place. It was brilliant.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So that's that sorted—the reasoning for the diary Horcrux. What do you think?

Also I already have some of the writing done for the next chapter, and I aim to have it out soon, to make up for this short one.


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Note:** I was moving along quite well on this chapter and then all of a sudden hit a wall, so it took longer than I intended. However, it is also a longer chapter, so there's that.

I chose to skip the making of the Horcrux because there is a process JK Rowling has thought of, but hasn't told us yet. If/when that becomes available, I'll go back and write it. Because of that, this picks up after that has happened, and it makes for a slightly awkward beginning of the chapter—sorry about that. Later, too, I break up a scene strangely, because I needed to change POV.

Tom is lowkey ooc in this chapter, but there's a reason for it, which I explain in the A/N at the end of this.

* * *

The school year had ended, the students were boarding the Hogwarts Express, and Tom had taken the Diary with him. When the moment came, he felt he couldn't leave it behind, far away from him for two months. Made under the stress of creating the Horcrux, it had been a rash decision; he was stuck with the Diary for the summer now, trying to keep it safe, hidden away, unnoticed. He tried to tell himself there was wisdom in it because the Basilisk could not necessarily be trusted, and as its venom was one of the few things capable of destroying the Horcrux… He knew that was only delayed justification, however. He had been in no fit state of mind to make any important decisions then, but there had been nothing else he could have done; control had slipped away, as much as he would have liked it to be otherwise.

What he had read implied the process was almost unbearably excruciating; he'd thought that had been some scheme of those who wanted to keep the power for themselves, to scare people out of attempting it. He'd been wrong.

Even now, he felt a burning sensation inside him, sometimes all over; he would suddenly feel nauseated and had had a constant headache since the Horcrux was made. People were commenting that he looked pale, and asked if he was alright. He had a much more difficult time politely telling them he was fine than he'd ever had before; it was as if the will to act kindly, even if it was insincere, had been sucked out of him. He would need to achieve mastery of this again.

For now he just had to make it through the train ride and then somehow get back to the orphanage.

* * *

Charlotte saw Tom's friends all filing past without him, going to sit somewhere else. "That's odd," she said to Valeria. "I'm going to see what's happening."

Avery caught sight of her heading towards the compartment where Tom was. "I wouldn't go in there if I were you. He isn't in a good mood... We're leaving him alone for a reason."

She ignored him, and the grave looks of the others, and went in. Tom was lying on the seat, turned away from her. She quietly slid the door shut behind her, but he must have known someone had entered. "I thought I told you to go away!" he growled without lifting his head to see who was there.

"It's me." He opened his eyes at her voice. She moved towards him. "You're not well?" She could tell that had to be the case, based on how he was acting, and he looked pale. Kneeling beside the bench seat, she felt his forehead—feverish. She gently stroked his hair. "Did you get bitten or stung or scratched by anything in your Care of Magical Creatures exam? And not tell anybody because you were too proud?"

* * *

"No," he answered, clenching his fist.

"I hope it isn't dragon pox..." He'd shut his eyes again and now was thankful he could not see Charlotte's lovingly concerned face.

"Of course it isn't dragon pox," he said harshly. "Everyone would be ill."

"You're right. I'm just worried about you." His anger was growing as she repeatedly brushed her fingers over his hair. He reached out and grabbed her other arm, gripping her tightly near her wrist, to let out some of his frustration and to cope with the pain he was feeling. It might have been hurting her, but he didn't care. She didn't react, as far as he could tell—he still wasn't looking at her. He let go of her and opened his eyes. She was staring at his grip on her, red lines fading from her skin between where his fingers had been.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" she asked. He noticed her voice made her sound like _she_ was in pain. He didn't understand why she was asking about _him_ when he'd just caused her suffering, for he assumed her arm was the source of the hurt in her voice.

"I'll be alright," he said firmly. At this point, he needed to make himself believe it too. Somehow he had relaxed. His breathing was in time with her hand's movement across his head, although he failed to see the connection. She stopped, and now _that_ annoyed him. He pushed himself into a half upright position.

"Do you need help?"

"No." His voice was tight with anger and pain, although the pain was easing. He sat up the rest of the way and Charlotte moved to sit next to him. He thought about telling her to leave instead, but another sudden wave of nausea overcame his ability to speak. They sat in silence for a minute or more, and then he was finally able to say, "Aren't you worried about getting sick yourself?"

With a shake of her head, she took his hand. Of course. He might have known that would be the answer, but he'd tried to scare her away regardless. His reasoning was still impaired, it seemed.

Realizing he was leaning to the side towards her, falling, more like, he let himself rest against her shoulder; she turned to better support him.

"You should have gone to see Madam Beauregard before we left Hogwarts," she said. He didn't want to move his head and he didn't want to form words, so his only response could be a groan that sounded more miserable than he would have liked. It accurately showed how he was feeling, but he hated to let Charlotte, or anyone, know that.

But he knew all of this would be worth it in the end; he kept reminding himself of that—the power that having a Horcrux would give him, the fact that he had achieved something hardly any other wizard had. The reality was still setting in. He'd dreamed of this for quite some time and now, surreal though it was, he had done it. A smile came to his mouth.

He felt Charlotte's lips against the top of his head. She thought he was smiling over her, naturally. "What are we going to do if you aren't feeling better by the time we get to King's Cross? Will you be able to make it through London on your own?"

This was a terrible thought. Her concern was justified, and he hated every solution. He couldn't go staggering across London on his own with all his school things; something might get lost. Muggles might offer him help. Having Charlotte go with him was equally unthinkable, to rely on her. "Let's hope I'm well enough by then," he said.

"My mother always arrives at the station late because she doesn't like the crowds," Charlotte replied.

"What are you going to do? Go with me and then find your way back on your own?" He laughed, finding the thought of her trying to navigate the Muggle train system very amusing. He sat up, feeling a bit better. "There wouldn't be time for you to get back. And we'd draw too much attention."

"You'd draw a fair bit of attention alone if you pass out in the streets, an odd stick in your pocket and a trunk full of strange books."

"I think I'll be fine. I'm starting to get over it," he said. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You said you weren't worried about getting sick, didn't you?"

She smiled, put a hand around his face and kissed him back. "I'll take the risk," she said softly. He felt almost normal again. Closing his eyes, he leaned back, enjoying the moment of relief. He hoped it meant his post-Horcrux suffering was at an end. He sat there, just breathing, freeing his mind from thoughts aside from how nice it was to feel comfortable. A highly unusual experience for him.

Then he looked at Charlotte, the outline of her body set against the blur of the countryside through the window. He had to turn away because it was tempting him too much. There was no point in feeding his lust for her in that instant, because he couldn't act on it; he needed those feelings to dissipate. But he wanted her, and only the fact that they were in a train full of other people stopped him; any protest she could have given would have been unheeded.

All at once his headache returned as a horribly sharp pain, as though his skull had been cleaved straight through. Every previous thought vanished as he gasped and Charlotte turned to him quickly. He leaned forward and his hand ended up on her leg, squeezing it as he had done with her arm before. Again, she was calm. She put her face near his and her hand on his arm. "What can I do?"

The pain subsided and he was looking into her eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, glancing down at her thigh, where his hand still rested, now relaxed.

"I didn't feel it that much," she answered. He wasn't sure if she was telling the truth, but he supposed it didn't matter. "I think you should try to rest, sleep, for the remainder of the trip," she said.

"That's what I was trying to do when you came in here," he replied bitterly. He felt a pain in his chest and lay down. He wished she would lie down next to him. To fall asleep with her in his arms—he didn't know where that desire came from, but it seemed the only thing he needed at that moment. She moved to stand up. "Don't leave," he said, which could have sounded weak and needy with a hint of desperation, but he felt he'd been commanding enough to not be ashamed of himself.

"I'm just moving to give you more room," she answered, indicating with her head that she would sit on the other side. He rose up enough to reach her.

"I want you here," he said quietly, embarrassed of it, although he had no reason to fear judgment from her. Still, the idea of it... But he was doing it anyway.

She took a seat beside him again and he sat up the rest of the way, folding his arms around her. " _Here_ ," he whispered, lying back down, pulling her with him and trying to do so gently. He remembered when he had been trying to sleep next to Charlotte and that fact had been an annoyance; a month and a half later he was choosing to embrace her while he slept. He'd never had the inclination to treat her this way before, and perhaps if it had occurred at another time he would have fought against it, but he lacked the will to do so now. Anything that put his agony into remission was welcome, and having Charlotte near him seemed to be doing that—this was partly the reason he acted on these feelings; the main reason, however, was that whatever he wanted to do, he did.

"This... isn't very comfortable for me," she said after lying there for a bit.

Twisting around onto his side to make room for her on the seat cushion instead of on him, he saw that she _had_ been in a sort of awkward, unnatural position, which he hadn't paid attention to earlier.

"Better?" he inquired.

"Yes. But is having me here not going to keep you awake?"

"It's fine. I feel better already." It was true. "And I'm sure I'll only improve with rest." He bent his face down into the softness of her hair to block out some of the light; he really did hope to fall asleep.

* * *

Tom's arm tightened around her waist. Charlotte flinched slightly, thinking of how he had squeezed her before, and readied herself to say something this time. The edge of the seat was within reach and, unlike her, the cushion didn't have pain receptors; he could use that if he had to grab on to something. But nothing more came of it.

It had hurt her to see him in pain. She had no idea what malady he was suffering from, but thought her mother would have at least a guess. And even though she felt Tom was the type who preferred to overcome illness and suffering like this without the intervention of anyone else, she decided she would have her mother look at him if she got the chance. It might have helped if she'd asked him exactly what was wrong, but she hadn't because she wouldn't have known what it meant or what to do anyway. The odds of him answering her were minimal, too, as mostly he had ignored her questions and refused her help.

She could feel the rise and fall of Tom's chest against her back as he breathed. Uncertain if he was asleep or not, she stayed quiet and still, stillness further necessitated by the small amount of space there was, and also for that reason she stayed awake—and besides, she was hardly tired. She thought about how excited she was to be going home, to see her father and mother again, about how she would spend her summer. She wondered if they might go back to France, even if it was only for a short time she would be happy, even if it wasn't her hometown.

She wondered what kind of magic she would practice. Her parents always liked for her to advance her studies even when she was out of school, usually focusing on one particular theme per year. Strictly speaking, she, being under seventeen, was not allowed to use magic away from school; her mother, however, had concluded that no one at the Ministry would be the wiser because the Trace wasn't fine-tuned enough to tell who exactly was casting the magic. Her father conceded, saying it was fine as long as her practice only happened under their supervision.

Her thoughts again returned to Tom. A captive in Muggle society, he didn't have this luxury, to be able to practice magic when he wasn't at Hogwarts. Not that he needed the practice,—he didn't seem any less skilled for it—but she was certain refraining from using magic for two months must challenge him. At least this summer would be different, when he came to visit her.

As she thought more about this, however, she realized her mother had not specified a length of time for him to visit. Perhaps she only had meant for a day. Her father still had to agree to it, too, a visit of any length. She'd been so eager and excited for the event, that she forgot to consider the true likelihood. But surely her parents would see that they had to take Tom away from the orphanage for as long as they could? And surely they would want to get to know him? What other way did they have to do this than to have him visit? She convinced herself again that there was no reason to doubt. Tom could be persuasive, so if she needed help getting her parents to agree, she was certain they could manage it between the two of them.

She shifted her body around, but couldn't feel comfortable on the relatively narrow seat; as much as she wanted to stay there with Tom, she carefully lifted his arm off of her and went to sit on the other side of the compartment. She smiled looking at him, sound asleep.

He was right that it was unrealistic for her to be the one to accompany him home if he was still unwell when they got to King's Cross, but she still wanted to help him, and was tempted to try it anyway.

After a while, Valeria appeared in the window. Charlotte motioned for her to enter, quietly. She came in and sat down, at the same time whispering, "I was just curious if you were coming back."

"I'm sorry I went off and left you for so long; I did intend to come back," she replied.

"I sketched out some designs I can work on over the summer—as if I didn't have enough to do already. It's fine." She laughed, and then glanced at Tom a bit anxiously. "He's asleep then? Why did the others leave?"

"He wasn't asleep when I came in. He's sick with something and only fell asleep a little bit ago. I didn't want to leave him to wonder where I'd gone when he woke up," Charlotte explained. "His friends left because he made them go, I think, but he let me stay; he wanted me to stay..." She drifted off into thought, feeling so very in love.

Valeria smiled at her, but looking over at Tom again, frowned. "Perhaps, with him being ill, I should go," she said, standing up. Charlotte stood with her and hugged her tightly. "Think you'll come see me this summer?"

Charlotte hesitated, not enough to be noticed, however. Valeria lived in the middle of a Muggle city, as her mother, being a Muggle, had an ordinary life to live while she kept the secret of her wizard husband. The previous summer, this same conversation had happened. Charlotte's mother had more or less forbidden her to go and, truthfully, Charlotte herself was not keen on the idea. She wanted to visit Valeria, of course, but being around her Muggle mother and in the midst of Muggle society, she disliked the thought of that. "You could come stay with my family for a while," she offered. "Although not at the same time as Tom."

"Tom is going to stay at your house?" asked Valeria, looking surprised.

"My mother wanted to invite him."

"So you should come visit me after that so I can hear all about it." Valeria grinned.

"We'll see." Charlotte smiled back to not give away her true thoughts. Then, seeing him raise his head, she turned towards Tom. Valeria looked to see what had her attention. "Oh! I was just leaving, Tom. I hope you feel better soon."

"I am already, thank you, Valeria." He sat up. She gave Charlotte another hug and left.

Looking out the window and recognizing the landscape as being closer to their destination, Charlotte said, "We'll be there soon. Are you really feeling better now?"

"Well enough," he said with a smile.

"Good. I hope it stays that way."

The train came to a stop shortly after this. Neither of them seeing a reason to throw themselves immediately into the throng of students rushing to get off the train, Charlotte stayed with Tom and they disembarked when things were less chaotic in the corridor. Once on the platform, she searched the crowd and caught sight of someone unexpected. Her father had managed to be there to meet her. Her face lit up. Then she noticed her mother was there too, standing behind him. For them to both be there... it was unusual; she hoped that nothing bad had happened. She turned to Tom to bring him over to them with her, and realized maybe he was the reason. That was a much nicer thought.

" _Papa_!" She hugged her father first. " _Je n'attendais pas que tu serais ici_! (I didn't expect you to be here!)"

" _Ta mère a proposé que nous te retrouvions ensemble. Toi, et ce jeune homme..._ (Your mother suggested we both meet you. You, and this young man...)" He gestured to Tom, who stepped forward uncertainly.

"Ah, _oui_. This is Tom. Tom, this is my father, _Monsieur Jean-Marc Soleil_. And of course you and my mother already met."

"It's a pleasure to meet you." Tom smiled at Monsieur Soleil and shook his hand.

"And you, and you. We look forward to knowing you better; if I understand correctly, you are coming to stay sometime this summer?"

"Yes, if the invitation still stands, I'd like that very much," he replied. "I imagine that, in the months since Charlotte told you about me, you must have been wondering 'what is he like? this boy she spends so much time with'. If I were in your position, I know I would want to be certain that boy was... good for her. I hope that after my visit you are confident of that." He smiled again at them both. While he spoke, Charlotte went over to greet her mother, exchanging kisses with her on each cheek.

"That's quite true, yes," Monsieur Soleil agreed.

"For today, you are fine to get home yourself?" Madame Soleil asked, turning to Tom.

"I am, thank you. I've been making the commute on my own since I was eleven." No symptom of his ailment seemed to be present now and Charlotte deemed it unnecessary to mention.

It was decided that they would collect Tom from the orphanage in two weeks and after he had obtained permission from the matron there, which he was evidently certain he could do. However, Monsieur and Madame Soleil were both willing to visit and speak with her themselves.

Although she knew she would see him again in a matter of weeks, it was difficult for Charlotte to say good-bye to Tom. Not only that, but, with her parents right there with them and all the others who were around on the platform, it was slightly awkward. They couldn't be as affectionate as they would have been alone. She almost forgot this, at first turning to him ready to embrace.

He took her hand and stood closer to her. "You'll write to me, won't you?"

"Of course." She smiled sweetly. "And you'll write back?"

"Of course."

"I'll see you in a few weeks then," she exhaled.

"Hopefully sooner than that," Tom said. They held eye contact for little longer; she wanted to kiss him so much. "I should be going," he said quietly, letting go of her hand. She smiled as she watched him leave and was startled by her father's hand on her shoulder.

" _Il faut que nous partions aussi_. (We should leave too.)"

* * *

 **Author's Note:** If you're skeptical about both of them fitting on that train seat, honestly I am too, but I have nothing to prove that they wouldn't, so let's just go with it. Also I'm sorry I used the word pain what felt like 50 times in this; the synonyms for it didn't work very well. Lastly, here's a mini-essay for the thing I said I'd talk about.

Two things are happening with Tom during the scene that is mainly from his perspective. He's in physical pain a lot, and he feels unusually drawn to Charlotte. In keeping with the Harry Potter series' major theme of love, and because love has an astounding impact in the real world, it is love that his soul longs for. (This love does not necessarily need to be romantic love,—in fact, I might say it would be better if it were not—but in the context on this story, that's what makes sense.) Part of his soul is trying to do good and also find love for him, so that someone will help him save himself from the fate he is building, while another part is embracing the destruction. Apparently,—I read this on the wiki, but I think it makes sense; I just can't remember if it was in the books—when a Horcrux is made, the maker is even less likely to be guided by morality. Tom exhibits this in this chapter. However, I also wanted to show another side of what could happen with the creation of a Horcrux, which is not specified in the series, that being how the soul would fight back against it. This is why he keeps hurting (at certain times, mostly not at random). Gradually, that pain disappears as the human will overcomes it; although his soul made an effort to turn him back, he made a choice to continue to pursue evil.

This makes sense in my head, but writing it down didn't turn out like I thought, so maybe that didn't make sense at all.


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Note:** I'm back! I haven't abandoned this fic! I was just really busy and unable to write until now since I last updated. :(

This update is quite short for two reasons. First, I just wanted to post _something_ after all this time. Second, I've made some edits to previous chapters, and that took some time. Not the (nearly) two months I've been silent, but these past couple days when I've been working on things again. Chapter 10 has essential new information, so there's that to read (about 1000 words). I've also changed/added bits to 1,3,4,9,12,15, and 20. If you want to know what changed/what it says now, but don't feel like going through and rereading all of that (I understand), feel free to PM me. Chapter 15 should be getting another scene though, so probably hold off if you're going to reread that; so far there's been 200 words added though. Also a lot of those are just a couple additional sentences (sorry...). But they were necessary changes for consistency!—based on a decision that I made for this chapter. Please understand that, as this is a WIP, I have to go back and change things as I make more decisions about the characters or the events. However, this is really helping me to become a better writer, so I hope you all can bear with me~ Additionally, I think it can be interesting to see more of the changes that are made as a story goes on; it's like all the behind-the-scenes things you don't see with a published novel.

* * *

Charlotte spent the first few days after she returned home readjusting to the surroundings. Making her own schedule was nice and it was so quiet compared to Hogwarts. But then, other things she did not enjoy returning to.

Unclear but plainly harsh words were the first thing she heard as she headed to the dining room for breakfast. She stopped on the staircase, not to listen, as Valeria told her she always did when her parents argued, which happened less frequently than it did in Charlotte's household; she went back upstairs to the window seat in the hallway. The view was of their front lawn, Muggle-viewing-friendly and simplistic. Charlotte stared off far into the distance, watching cars travel along the road set into the hillside. She distracted herself by thinking about her essay on the Muggle invention, which wouldn't have brought her any joy if it hadn't have been for her discussion with Tom about it, one of the first real conversations they had had.

She decided to try venturing downstairs again.

There was only silence as she headed towards the smell of crêpes. She went around the corner and found only her father sitting at the table.

" _Maman est au jardin?_ [Mother is in the garden?]" she asked, easily assuming this.

Monsieur Soleil nodded once. "You heard… euh, our disagreement?" he asked with a sigh.

"Somewhat. Was it about speaking French at home?" Her father wanted the practice with English, but this was liable to cause a _disagreement_ at any given time.

He smiled. " _Pas cette fois._ [Not this time.]" He sipped his coffee before he spoke again. "No, something far less trivial. There was a letter from France… from Melisande." He spoke gravely enough to concern Charlotte; correspondence from her mother's sister was not often joyful anyway.

"She hasn't done anything… foolish, has she?"

"Only continuing to live in that house, where so many bad memories live with her." His voice was sympathetic, even though he didn't understand her choice.

He hadn't explained what about the letter had led to an argument, but Charlotte didn't care much, so she left any question about it unasked. She did, however, want to know something else. "Does she want us to come visit?"

Her father breathed in. "Yes. And that's the problem."

"Oh." She hadn't expected that. "Why don't you want to go?"

"I do want to."

Charlotte frowned in confusion, "Maman _ne veut pas aller à la France, pour visiter sa sœur?_ [ _Mother_ doesn't want to go to France, to visit her sister?]" He spread his hands apart with his palms upwards and sighed. "She must have a reason. _Je suis certaine..._ [I'm certain...]"

* * *

The door to Mrs. Cole's office was open, but Tom knocked anyway before going in. The woman sat at her desk and looked up as soon as she heard the sound at the door. Seeing it was Tom, she immediately became uneasy, nervously shuffling the papers in front of her with no purpose in doing so. "Tom. Can I do something for you?" she asked with a weak, forced smile.

 _Can I do something for you_? Not, _what are you doing here_? Because he had established a degree of control over her, rooted in her fear of him. It made him smile, and he didn't care that it was a kind of smile she would find unsettling.

"Yes," he said. "I came to get permission to leave the orphanage for a bit, to visit—" he paused very briefly because he didn't want to say 'my girlfriend', and instead finished, "a friend from school."

"For how long? Does he live nearby? Although, I can't just let you leave." She stated this fact with disappointment.

"A week, maybe two. Or a month," he said in answer to the first question. He wasn't sure how long the Soleils would end up letting him stay, but he wanted to push Mrs. Cole to allow him as much time as possible.

"A month!" she exclaimed with hope in her eyes. "Must be a good friend," she added to herself, taking on a puzzled expression. She of course had trouble imagining how unsociable, intimidating, Tom Riddle had managed to make a friend.

"We're allowed visits to family, but I haven't got any family we know of—it's been sixteen years; I don't think anyone's likely to show up now—so I might as well be allowed to visit a friend." The word _friend_ felt awkward in his mouth still.

Mrs. Cole pursed her lips. Clearly, she wanted to tell him he was free to go—ask him how soon he could be gone, even—but instead she had to say, "I just don't know…"

"I'm sixteen years old; there's hardly a reason for me to be here at all."

"You don't reach the age of majority for another year and a half. Until then, you're my responsibility." She thought some more. "And there's already the strange circumstance of that boarding school of yours…" she said slowly, then speaking increasingly to herself, "It's not worth the risk to the orphanage."

So she thought some inspector from some Muggle board would find out one of her orphans was unaccounted for and close her down, he realized with frustration.

"Well, someone else will still be coming to speak with you about it," Tom said, turning to leave. If Madame or Monsieur Soleil couldn't convince her, he would have to see to it that Mrs. Cole changed her mind at the very last minute instead. With an adult witch in close proximity, a spell—not even the imperius curse—would be found out by the Ministry and their stupid Trace spell—now _that_ , in Tom's mind, should have been an unforgivable curse.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** In the interim since I last updated, I have also come up with a new plot line I'm pretty excited about, and wrote a bit for it already. So hopefully that will help my progress remain more timely in the future. Then there's also the _major_ events that happened in the summer of 1943 (most likely, from my deductions from the books). I've got a lot to write.


	32. Chapter 32

**Author's Note:** I don't even want to count the days of how long it's been since I last updated... I just got a bit stuck. And to be honest, I'm still not very happy with some things.

There's quite a bit of French in this chapter; I hope it doesn't make it too difficult to read. But there's no getting around it really, since I made Madame Soleil someone who doesn't like to use English. Also, just fyi, the translations are not literal, so you can't always match up the words and figure out what means what. I write what sounds good in French and what sounds good in English and they don't always correspond exactly.

And now the portion of the chapter introduction where I talk about all the things I changed in previous parts of the story... Yep, I've been editing again. Last chapter I said I changed 20, and I meant to, but I forgot, so I've done that now. Chapter 5 has some things added in and some things taken out (now +~100 words); I think it's much better overall, but there's still a paragraph or two that could use improvement. Anyway, chapter 6 has also had some additions (+~400 words).

* * *

Lisabelle had come to the conclusion that it would be better for Mélisande to come to England than for the three of them to go to France, and was now clinging to this opinion with an iron grip. Knowing her mother did not like to be on the receiving end of persuasion, and she was likely to interpret the inquiry as an attempt at such, even if it was not, Charlotte waited before asking about how that would impact Tom and Valeria's respective visits.

" _Val peut nous rendre visite après Tom, même si Mélisande est encore ici, n'est-ce pas?"_ ["Val can visit us after Tom, even if Mélisande is still here, right?"]

" _Je suppose,_ " she replied, indicating she wouldn't object although she wasn't thrilled about the idea.

" _Et Tom va rester… où? Nous n'avons qu'une chambre vide et il sera aussi ici, j'imagine, au même temps de Mélisande."_ ["And Tom will stay... where? We only have one empty room and he will be here, I imagine, at the same time as Mélisande."] It was so strange not having very much space. Having kept their house in France, this second home had to be smaller. It did come with extensive ground, however, which was of value to both Charlotte and her mother. Monsieur Soleil, too, had been known to take walks around the estate for relaxation.

" _Nous pouvons mettre un lit à la bibliothèque. S'il aime les livres comme tu dit, ça ne devrait trop le géner_ ," ["We can put a bed in the library. If he likes books as you say, that will not be a problem,"] Madame Soleil answered breezily. Charlotte suspected, however, that this was to conceal her similar unhappiness about their lack of space, which they were so accustomed to in France.

Space wasn't Charlotte's main concern, of course. Her mother read the unresolved worry on her face plainly, and said, " _Si tu n'es pas prête pour qu'il rencontre ta famille, même ta tante Mélisande, alors peut-être qu'il ne devrait pas venir._ " ["If you aren't ready for him to meet your family, even your aunt Mélisande, then maybe he shouldn't come."]

A small panic set in. " _Je lui ai déjà raconté ce qu'il s'est passé,_ " ["I already told him what happened,"] Charlotte said in a rush. As she thought about it, however, she didn't see why her mother felt that was so important.

" _Bon. Mais tu ne veux pas qu'il fasse connaissance avec elle...?_ " ["That's fine. But you don't want him to meet her...?"]

" _Je ne crois pas que ça changerait son opinion de moi. Mais si leur rencontre était évitable…_ " ["I don't think that it would change his opinion of me. But if their meeting could be avoided..."]

Her mother didn't respond immediately. Then when she did, she addressed the subject from a different angle. " _Il est possible qu'avec quelqu'un qui ne vient pas de la famille elle fasse l'effort d'être normale._ " ["It's possible that with someone outside of the family she will make an effort to be normal."] She then added quickly, " _Elle fait toujours l'effort, mais..._ " ["She always makes an effort, but _..._ "] But it wasn't enough.

" _Je crois que, si elle pouvait choisir d'être normale, elle le ferait._ " ["I think that, if she could choose to be normal, she would."] Charlotte said this quietly.

Her mother sunk into a nearby armchair, raising her hand to her forehead with a sigh. " _Je déteste le fait que je peux faire rien._ " ["I hate that I cannot do anything."]

She felt she should comfort her mother, but it was so unusual to see her like this, she didn't know what to do. Deciding instead that it was best to leave her alone, Charlotte wordlessly went from the room, closing the door behind her.

* * *

A day later, Mélisande was on their doorstep.

For being almost just as wealthy as the Soleils, she wore far more understated clothing. All black. As though she were still in mourning. Charlotte didn't think that was altogether unlikely, in fact. She greeted them with a smile, however—a bright, full smile. Perhaps Charlotte had been mistaken.

When they had shown her around the house and the grounds, she complimented it all—in English, to their surprise.

" _On a pas oublié le français parce qu'on vit en Angleterre; tu n'as pas besoin de parler anglais,_ " ["Just because we live in England, doesn't mean we've forgotten French; you don't need to speak English,"] Lisabelle said.

Presumably to content her, Mélisande replied in French, " _Dans quel façon, alors, suggèrerais-tu que je le pratique?_ " ["How, then, do you suggest I practice it?"] She wasn't defensive, but clearly she wanted to make a point.

" _Quelle différence entre les deux_ ," ["What a difference between them."] Monsieur Soleil said to Charlotte.

Mélisande continued. " _Avec la guerre, on est avantagé quand on parle l'anglais,_ " ["With the war, it's advantageous to speak English,"] she added dismissively. Her sister frowned, but made no comment.

"If you want to practice, I'm sure Charlotte would be happy to converse with you," offered Monsieur Soleil. Charlotte gave a nod and a smile. "I will too, of course, when I can."

"Yes, Charlotte must have learned a lot since starting school here." She turned to her niece. "And how goes school?"

"Very well." She would know just how well exactly when she received her OWL scores later that month.

"I don't hear much about how you are doing," Mélisande said reflectively.

"You could write to her directly. I always assume you ask from politeness and not with an interest in the details," answered Lisabelle.

She ignored whatever point her sister was trying to make. "She can speak English after all. And well. Bravo. You should not let fear of mistakes stop you from trying," Mélisande said.

Madame Soleil colored. "That is not the case. Fear has no part in it."

* * *

There was less than a week of Mélisande being there before Tom would join them too. Charlotte was surprised to find she didn't want to talk to her aunt about him; she was always afraid of upsetting her. There wasn't any particular reason Mélisande might have to react badly to learning about Charlotte's boyfriend, but still she hesitated.

...

"How long will Tom being staying for?" Mélisande, apparently informed by her sister, asked the second morning of her stay.

"As long as he wants, I hope" Charlotte answered quietly. All she had gotten was several "we'll see"s whenever she asked. "I think we want him to experience living with a wizarding family for as long as he can. Relieve him of living with muggles." She mumbled this last part.

Her aunt's eyebrows went up. "Is he— does he have muggle parents?"

"No, oh no. He lives at a muggle orphanage, not by choice, of course. But that's where he grew up." She'd simply said no before she could stop herself.

Mélisande nodded. "I could not imagine my sister allowing her only daughter to be with a boy from a muggle family, even if he was a wizard." That was what she was afraid of; she knew her aunt was correct in this judgment. And soon she and Tom would be facing that conflict. But Charlotte merely nodded, showing none of this. "I can see why you want him to give him another home here," Mélisande said.

"I... hadn't thought about it like that—another home. But I hope he does come to think of it that way." She truly did. How wonderful would that be? The family he never had. Feeling at home with them was the first step. She smiled to herself, but her eyes met Mélisande's.

"How in love you are..."

Charlotte thought she might be blushing so she changed the subject. "Who taught you English? I remember when you only spoke as well as _Maman_."

There was silence. Her aunt stared off ahead of her. The clock ticked at least sixty times before she said, "As I mentioned, the war makes it useful. An Englishman I... became friends with taught me." Charlotte wasn't going to inquire any further, but a flurry of words abruptly burst out from Mélisande. "It was not—he was never a replacement for Étienne. We were not like that together. I would not want you to think—"

"I thought nothing like that," Charlotte assured her. It didn't matter one way or the other to her how faithful to her dead husband her aunt was, but clearly it was very important to Mélisande that she make no mistake where this man was concerned.

"I loved Étienne. I still do. Even after—" she caught the words, the explanation Charlotte had never heard, in pursed lips. "Do you remember him?" Mélisande quietly asked.

Charlotte shook her head nervously. "Although I remember Cor—" How foolish. If she had given a moment's thought to it, she would have recognized it as a terrible idea.

"I try to forget," Mélisande answered in a tight whisper.

"I'm so sorry; I shouldn't have mentioned— I spoke without thinking!"

No reply. Charlotte felt sure that behind her eyes her aunt was reliving that night. She didn't know what to do. Slowly, she placed her hand on Mélisande's.

Eventually her aunt met her gaze. "It was awful," she said.

"I'm sure it was," answered Charlotte, full of sympathy. "But you don't need to think about it anymore. That won't help anyone." Mélisande rose from her chair and passed a minute doing nothing more than standing there, then she turned to the doorway and wordlessly left the room. Charlotte stayed. She thought it safer for both of them if she left Mélisande's miserable memories to run their course. She had no one to intervene at home and, Charlotte assumed, that worked well enough.

Her aunt returned a little while later, perfectly normal, as if nothing had happened. "This letter came for you," she said, holding out an envelope. The stamp in the corner caught her attention because she was so unaccustomed to seeing them. Perhaps it was from Tom, she thought joyfully. But the somewhat excessively artistic font on the outside said the sender was Valeria as clearly as her own name spelled it out.

A simplified version of the script was found on the inside. The letter was brief.

 _Dear Charlotte,_

 _How has your summer been? Mine has been… Well, I'll get directly to the point. Too much is going on at home for me and I can't stay with you at all this summer. My parents say that you can come stay with us for a short visit, even though things might be a bit tense (but please don't let that stop you from visiting!). They want me to be able to see you. And of course I want to see you._ [ _It might help make things easier. *_ heavily crossed out, but still legible] _I can't wait to hear about Tom's visit! In person—a letter wouldn't be the same (and maybe there are some things you wouldn't want to write down?). Please write me back soon._

 _Love, Valeria Philomena Lowell_

Valeria always signed her letters with her full name written in elegant calligraphy.

Charlotte frowned. She was concerned about what was happening that Val couldn't leave, or didn't want to. And now what was she supposed to do? She didn't want to make her wait long for an answer, but she didn't know what to tell her. She'd already had this discussion with her parents and gotten nowhere. Even her father, for whatever reason, seemed cautious of allowing her to go.

But all of those times there had been the option of Valeria staying with them instead. Now there wasn't.

Rather than show it to either of her parents directly, she left it open on the table, certain they would see it and hoping it, on its own, would give them reason to change their minds.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** In all but the last scene, I think things end abruptly... so don't be surprised if I go back and make changes later. *sigh*

There's a long sequence of scenes I've written (partially) that follow this, but I don't think they work as well if I separate them, so I can't make this chapter/update any longer, unfortunately. I will try to have the next chapter completed and out soon though.


	33. Chapter 33

**Author's Note:** Guess what? It's the one year anniversary of me posting this! Thank you to everyone who favorites, follows, reviews, and the people who just read without making themselves known—all of this really helps encourage me to work harder at writing! It may seem silly (like too much hype for a small thing), but I'm really very pleased that I kept this up for an entire year; I'd love to celebrate it with you all somehow—if anyone has ideas about how I can show my appreciation, please PM me or mention it in a review of this chapter~ It's so fun for me to talk about my writing, I would probably do that in a video or something, but I need to know what interests you all. I hope to hear your suggestions!

Now on to the actual chapter...

* * *

Charlotte didn't have to wait long for someone to raise the topic of the letter. Her father came looking for her, finding her feeding the fanged geraniums in the garden.

"I saw your piece of mail on the table."

"And did _maman_?"

"Not yet. And I wanted to talk to you before she did."

"Shall we go for a walk then?" Charlotte asked. Monsieur Soleil nodded with a smile.

"Tell her the circumstances—emphasize that it wouldn't be for very long, as Valeria said—and say that you think you should go. Don't wait for her to bring it up," he said.

Staring at the ground, she continued to walk. After several silent strides, she answered. "Why can't you? Say it instead."

"You don't want to, and that's why you need to. You'll be better off for it." Charlotte went quiet again. "I moved the letter. And I will not say anything about it until you have. That's what ought to happen." There was, she could see, no way to get out of this now. Without waiting for a reply from her, her father turned to a tree beside them and said thoughtfully, "These are your mother's favorite, you know."

"The shrivelfig?" Charlotte looked at him skeptically. "Do you mean _were_? When the two of you met, or some other time in the past? I can't recall ever hearing her say a good thing about them." The fruit was never plump enough, there were too few blossoms, the roots needed to be stronger no matter how strong they already were. Her father chuckled.

"She wants them to be without flaw, even if that's unrealistic; she thinks she can make it so. And it _is_ the plant she cares most about."

Charlotte frowned. "Are you— Did you just compare me to a shrivelfig tree?" Midway through the question she started to giggle.

"Yes, I did." Monsieur Soleil grinned. "Be glad her favorite isn't a Chinese chomping cabbage." They were both laughing now.

* * *

Tom, trying to solve the problem of getting permission to go to the Soleils, was weighing his options. What could Mrs. Cole do if he simply snuck out and didn't return for however many days? Not let him come back? That gave him even more reason to leave without approval. He momentarily fantasized about facing down Ministry officials and threatening to expose the Wizarding world to Muggles if they didn't force Hogwarts to authorize his permanent residence at the castle. If he was outnumbered, perhaps it wouldn't be possible—but that was why it was a fantasy. But he knew someday, soon even, that kind of power could be his.

Before him on the desk lay a blank piece of paper, soon to be a letter convincing Charlotte and her family that he did not need them to come to the orphanage to get him. He had agreed to it when he had last seen them, at King's Cross, but it had been his intention even then to change their plans. Of course he knew they would see this as an odd position to take—why would he rather spend all that time in transit when he could Apparate there with Madame or Monsieur Soleil? It seemed like a perfectly obvious choice. But he preferred to be independent. Not to mention, he couldn't bear the thought of them being in the orphanage with him, of seeing him there; thoughts of pity would inevitably cross their minds when they looked at him. He hated the place so much. And he would have to answer questions about why people behaved the way they did towards him in the orphanage. That was the one good thing about the place: Tom did not have to suffer the tediousness of popularity there. Instead, everyone treated him with a cautious fear. It was much more satisfying. But to Charlotte and her parents, it would be concerning.

As he thought about how he would word his suggestion—because he had to show how it was to their advantage, saving them time or some such thing—he twirled the quill between his fingers, using a small amount of magic to keep it from dropping. It wasn't enough to be noticeable by the Ministry because it wasn't any spell in particular. Maintaining the balance between insignificant magic and a full spell was a mental exercise comparable to closing your hand around an eggshell without breaking it. It was doubly challenging because he was trying not to focus all of his attention on that. He liked that it was difficult.

Just then the door creaked open behind him; he crushed the feather in his palm as he instinctively clenched his fingers around it and twisted around to see who his guest was. A boy of who looked to be about seven—in reality he was nine—had stepped over the threshold, unabashedly coming into Tom's room. He faltered a bit as he glanced between Tom's expression and the sharp object in his hand, wielded disconcertingly like a knife.

"Don't you think you should knock before entering a room?" Tom watched the boy swallow nervously.

"Mrs. Cole said she wanted to talk to you and I said I'd fetch you for her." Of course—the newest resident had not yet learned how one acted towards Tom Riddle. "Why are you using a feather to write?" he asked with daring curiosity. Tom glared at him as he tossed the quill over his shoulder and went across the room, grabbing hold of the boy as he passed him. As they came into the hallway, he shoved him away and yanked the door shut as forcefully as he could without slamming it.

"She's in the dining hall!" the boy called as Tom headed downstairs. He received no word of thanks.

If Mrs. Cole had made her decision, and it was to let him leave, that was very good news. It meant he was practically guaranteed the freedom to travel on his own to Charlotte's; all he had to do was tell them there was no need for anyone to come convince her with their adult authority.

...

Tom posted his letter to Charlotte as quickly as he could after speaking with Mrs. Cole. When she had asked him where he would be going, and he had shown her on a map, he had noticed something that made him so much more eager for his travel arrangements to be solo. The words were small on the map, but they leapt out at him in their familiarity: _Little Hangleton_. He now knew that his relatives—the word family was much too tender for him to use—had a house close enough to the Soleil's that he could make a detour on his way there.

Annoyingly, he'd had to use the Muggle post. Charlotte's owl had hung about awaiting a return letter, but disappeared before Tom got around to writing one; he suspected some rowdy children had scared it off. He hadn't written her much. He wasn't sure what she expected; there wasn't a lot to say. At least on his part—Charlotte told him about all kinds of things, ranging from conversations with her aunt and a letter from Valeria that concerned her, to completely useless information, like how the garden was doing.

He was getting tired of it, of his masquerade.

* * *

When Lisabelle returned home from her day's work, Charlotte was waiting for her in the foyer.

She spoke in a rush before she lost the nerve. "I've had a letter from Valeria, something's happened, she didn't say what, but she can't come to visit us, so I want to go stay with her—for only a week at most."

"You want to spend a week living in—how do the English say— _Muggle_ society?" Madame Soleil answered slowly, which she managed to pass off for gravity, but Charlotte thought it might have something to do with the language they were speaking.

"I don't want to miss the opportunity to see my friend over the summer," she said, and then added, "And I'm glad you're speaking English. We should get accustomed to using it around here before Tom arrives."

"Yes, that will be soon. You and I will be going to London on Saturday, _n'est-ce pas_?"

She nodded. Her father hadn't mentioned any discussion between them about that; she supposed he was busy, but, if that was the case, she wished he had told her. She didn't reveal any disappointment, however, so that her mother couldn't take offense to it.

"And what about Valeria?" she asked, not wanting to let her mother evade the matter.

"You should write to her and make arrangements to see her."

"I can go?" She had agreed surprisingly quickly.

"You can promise you will see her, and at her home, not yours." Her mother smiled.

* * *

The day arrived. Shortly before noon, Tom was called downstairs. For whatever reason, Madame Soleil had evidently insisted that she and Charlotte come to London. He was irritated, but told himself that being at the Soleils' gave him the opportunity to travel too, and he would surely find a way from there to fulfill his intention to visit the Gaunt House.

It seemed he was to have an audience for his reunion with Charlotte; he took the steps two at a time to get by as quickly as possible. They instinctively backed into the wall as he passed, to let him through without the slightest obstruction. But he could feel them staying close, shadowing him.

Charlotte was standing just inside the door, trying to be poised but obviously uncomfortable. He couldn't blame her for that. But he felt something negative, as he came found her looking around the room and not facing the stairs, not seeming eager to see him. He took a step forward and a floorboard creaked. She turned around immediately and came over to him in a rush. The whispers from the children on the staircase merged together into an unintelligible form. Some of them peeked around the corner to get a look at Charlotte, their eyes wide with curiosity. Hesitating as she brought her lips close to his, she glanced over his shoulder at them.

"I've missed you. It's so good to see you again," Tom whispered, fighting the urge to take a step back because her face was still so close.

She smiled and kissed him, disregarding the still-watching children. "I've missed you too. Especially since you didn't write like you said you would."

"There was nothing to say. I didn't want to bore you," he answered. "I'm sorry if it made you think I didn't miss you."

"A _girl_!" Mrs. Cole's utterly stunned exclamation signified her entry, interrupting them. "You didn't tell me your _friend_ was a young lady." Startled, Charlotte made as if to jump back from Tom, but he held her too tightly for her to break away. He released her slowly while looking back at Mrs. Cole.

"I didn't think it made a difference."

"Of course it does!" She had gone a bit pale. "I don't think I can let you go now, knowing the situation."

"Why not?" Charlotte demanded to know.

"She doesn't want any more orphans to look after!" came the cackling of a girl who was too young to be coming to such conclusions.

"Polly!" Mrs. Cole marched over to the foot of the stairs and saw the small crowd gathered there, which had lost some of its numbers when Polly exposed them, although the stomping of feet sounding from further upstairs still gave away their presence. "All of you! Up to your rooms!" She turned back to Tom and Charlotte, her face now red. "Well, yes," she admitted. "Since it's been said now—that's right."

"If I had a child I didn't want, I would not be bringing it here, I can promise you that." Simultaneously a reassurance and an attack, it gave Tom pleasure to hear Charlotte say it. It also gave him an idea.

"That is _not_ the point! I help those who have come into this world already and through unfortunate circumstances now need someone to look after them. I feel it would be against my better judgment to knowingly contribute to the possibility—"

"What if I told you," Tom interjected, taking Charlotte's hand. "...that she's already..." He hadn't thought about the exact wording he would use to finish that sentence. Thankfully, the point was made.

Mrs. Cole glanced rapidly between the two of them. "I would say that school of yours needs to get its act together. What's it called again? Bogwood? ...It certainly sounds like a mess of a place..."

"In any case, you can see there's nothing to be done about it now," Charlotte said. Tom smiled at her ability to expertly play along and let himself look at her affectionately.

"How far along are you then?"

"Well... as you can see, not very..." Charlotte became a bit uneasy.

"But once we've seen a doctor, which we will soon, we'll know." He put his arm around Charlotte and looked at her as he spoke.

"You don't know—" she took a deep breath. "I say. Never would happen in any institution I run."

"So," Tom said, "I have to go, to be with her. Her parents need to know I'm going to look after their daughter and our child. If not," he said ominously, "there may be another orphan in the world."

Mrs. Cole seemed a bit dazed. No doubt she was shocked by this entirely uncharacteristic behavior. "Yes, I— I suppose, yes, you should go," she said.

Tom spread his arm towards the door for Charlotte to go ahead. He followed her, and Mrs. Cole followed behind them both. Coming up to Madame Soleil, she motioned to Charlotte and asked, "Are you her mother?", while giving the woman an up and down glance to take in her unusual clothing.

"Yes, I am," she replied, hardly holding her gaze and instead looking at Tom and Charlotte. "Are we ready to leave?"

"Yes," Tom answered, with Charlotte's affirmation coming as an echo. He felt her lean into him and he suspected she was anxiously awaiting the moment Mrs. Cole would reveal their "secret". "Your mother will know the truth soon," he said. "And it will be fine." He spoke loudly enough that everyone heard him; he wanted it over with.

As expected, Madame Soleil turned around to face them again and asked, "what _truth_?"

"Congratulations on your grandchild." Mrs. Cole hurriedly said before taking her leave. While she remained within earshot, Charlotte and Tom were forced to endure Madame Soleil's questioning stare, deepening in anger the longer she looked at them.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Yeah so that didn't go as I planned but it's a chapter.

But now some of the things I already wrote for this chapter can go in the next one instead, so I've got a head start on that. Also I was debating about having them visit Diagon Alley since they're in London, which they will spending a bit more time in. I haven't decided yet though, and that would happen before the things that I've already written...


	34. Chapter 34

**Author's Note:** Hello, it's been months, I hope people still care about this...

Since it's been so long, and because this chapter just jumps in right in the middle of things, here's a little recap: Charlotte and her mother arrived at the orphanage to bring Tom back with them for a visit. Mrs. Cole, the woman who runs the orphanage, was not so keen on the idea of letting him go once she realized he would be staying with a girl. In order to get her to allow him to leave, Tom gets the idea of telling her Charlotte is pregnant. This works, but Mrs. Cole takes it upon herself to also inform Madame Soleil.

* * *

"How could you let that happen?" Madame Soleil now sounded more shocked than anything else.

Charlotte couldn't sustain absolute silence and quietly began, "We di—" Tom put one hand on her arm and pointedly stared in the direction of Mrs. Cole, who was moving away painfully slowly.

"Do you really think we should be talking about it here?" he stopped her.

" _You will say._ " Madame Soleil said, glaring at him. He kept himself from looking back at her, knowing that he would show all the anger he felt at being spoken to that way. "I do not care what _these people_ think." She gestured around her to passing Muggles. "And _you_ should get used to the attention!" They _were_ drawing a bit of attention now.

"I think you'll find that the situation is not as bad as it seems," Tom said, hoping Madame Soleil might catch on.

"I am pleased you have that confidence," she answered, not sounding pleased at all and clearly not guessing at the truth.

Charlotte had been holding on to Tom's arm, but she suddenly let go and bolted away, turning from her mother and running past the other passersby. "Charlotte! You run like that, it could be bad for you in your state!" Madame Soleil called after her. Tom observed that she didn't look cross—until she turned to him. "Go, bring her back. _I_ will not chase her." He stared back at her, in a silent power struggle that he refused to lose.

"She doesn't need me to run after her." He looked over his shoulder just in time to catch a glimpse of her darting off the main road. He looked back towards the orphanage. Mrs. Cole had apparently seen enough. "And there is no baby," he said, letting his tone indicate it should have been obvious. Then, without waiting for Madame Soleil's response, he went in search of Charlotte—the sooner he got her back to her mother, the sooner they could all leave that place—although he wouldn't run after her, as if there was some kind of desperation in him to find her.

She had slipped between two buildings, barely enough space to be called an alleyway. He found her standing there, arms folded over her chest, staring seemingly blankly at the wall across from her. Still angry from his interaction with Madame Soleil, he spoke sharply. "Honestly Charlotte, you couldn't manage five _seconds_ more to wait to tell your mother the truth? She humiliated me."

At those words she quickly turned to face him. "You want to speak to me about humiliation?" She lowered her voice to an angry whisper, evidently concerned about further embarrassment. "You let my mother believe I was pregnant!"

"With _my_ child," Tom answered, fighting a nauseated feeling at saying the words. "I had to bear my share of humiliation for that as well." Charlotte stared back at him, a sort of defiance in her eyes, then she unexpectedly leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him with a sigh and holding on tightly. Tom did not return her embrace. It caught him off-guard, so for a moment he simply stood there stiffly, before taking hold of her waist and pushing her away from him; he was in no mood to pretend. "And you ran away to hide like some kind of scared animal." He relished this chance to speak to Charlotte in a way that reflected his true feelings, the lack of love.

Now, taken aback, she looked at him in confusion mixed with a satisfying amount of pain. "Why are you saying th—"

"He should be nicer to you, with you carrying his baby and all." A smug looking man stepped into view.

* * *

Tom slowly reached for where his wand was concealed. Charlotte put her hand on his. "Tom, don't," she whispered. Letting go, she stepped around him to fully face the man. "This is none of your business."

"I try to make it my business when a pretty girl isn't getting what she deserves." He had moved towards her, while Tom made no movement at all. She couldn't stand her ground as he got closer and closer to her, but he backed her into the wall and then she had nowhere to go.

"This pretty girl doesn't need a thing from you," she said, with her eyes lowered to try to ignore how near his face was to hers. "Except for you to _get away from me_."

"Looks to me like you need a better man. This one isn't doing a thing to stop me." He was blocking Charlotte's view of Tom, but clearly from the fact that she was still pinned to the wall with a strange, awful man breathing on her neck, he was right; her boyfriend wasn't helping. She'd meant to tell Tom to not use magic, not to stand by and do nothing. "And of course he wouldn't," the man continued, "one of those good-for-nothing orphan kids. Maybe you felt sorry for him, but you shouldn't bother; they're hopeless rascals, the lot of them."

This was evidently the provocation Tom needed to take action. The man was yanked backwards by his shirt collar, pulling Charlotte forward with him. She pushed him away from her, as hard as she could, and watched him tumble to the ground. He hit the wall opposite them and let out a groan. But before he had the chance to do anything else, his face contorted in pain and his eyes went wide with shock; he looked like he was about to scream. Instead, not only was he silent, but it was quickly apparent he was unable to breath. His hands desperately felt around his neck for whatever was asphyxiating him.

"Tom—!"

He quickly put his hand out behind him to silence Charlotte. It was only a gesture, not a means of magic, but she flinched. Her instincts said she ought to be scared of him. Who was this boy who _enjoyed_ the suffering he was causing? She could see it in the look on his face. There was something pleasurable in this to him. So she stayed still, because whatever he had just become, she didn't want to get on the wrong side of it.

The man was unconscious now. Tom turned back to face her, breathing heavily. He gave her a steady glance up and down, taking in her reaction, then turned away again. He pulled out his wand, pointed it at the man and said, " _Obliviate_."

"Now that was just foolish," said Charlotte, as he was lowering his wand and tucking it away again.

"No," Tom answered, with some irritation, before facing her. He continued more calmly, "There was some accidental magic and we took care of the effects ourselves—that's the story we'll tell. Although, from what I hear, the department that deals with the Trace is heavily corrupted, I doubt anything will even come of it."

" _Accidental magic_?" He'd said it so nonchalantly. "Accidental magic is lighting all the candles in a room suddenly or sending books flying off a shelf, not almost suffocating someone!"

"Of course it wasn't _actually_ accidental magic," Tom replied, sounding annoyed again, "but they won't know the difference. No one will know that anything happened. Including him." He started towards the street, stepping over the man's legs, but, as he took another step forward and the man's arm came across his path, Tom's heel came down on his hand. He stepped off of it and faced Charlotte again. "Well, now he'll know _something_ happened." He smirked.

"He did deserve that," Charlotte said, joining him on the other side of the man, "but not the rest."

"I would think you would be more eager to see him punished."

"That's not the point." He didn't react. "Anyway, my mother will be wondering what's happened to us; we should get back to her. But _we have_ _to_ talk about this again, later." When she'd had time to process.

"That's fine with me," he agreed.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Sorry this was a bit short, especially after being away for so long—you'd think I'd have more to post; I do, it's just not all linked together yet. I _promise_ I'll update again soon. I'm also still editing a lot of previous chapters. I plan on having a few more of those done, including major rewrites of a couple (7 and 8, in particular...), by the time I post again so I can let you know what's new. I really hope it doesn't bother people too much that I go back and change things, but sometimes I realize there are parts that I just can't leave as I originally wrote them, for various reasons. Usually for the sake of continuity or better character development.

Also sorry for changing perspective in the middle of a scene; I don't like doing that, but I don't think there was any other way to write it this time.

And once again I'd just like to say thank you for reading this story, especially if you're coming back to it after all these months; it really means so so much to me. ^-^

PS. Did you notice the new cover? There was a small blurb about the old one in chapter one, so I've updated that to be about this new one.


	35. Chapter 35

**AUTHOR'S NOTE (VERY IMPORTANT!):**

I'm not saying this is the last update, but... this is the last update for the foreseeable future—on this site. You may already know, but I have begun a complete rewrite of this fic, and am posting it on AO3 (Archive of Our Own). If you have an AO3 account/use AO3, please go subscribe to my story there. :) The title and my username are both the same as here.

At first I had planned on simply replacing the chapters here with my new version, but I have decided I think it's better to leave this version as is, as a sort of archived version of how the story started. Unless I become too embarrassed of this version, which, to be entirely honest, is possible.

So, although I have no definite plans to continue updating this exact version of the story, I am by no means abandoning the fic altogether. I still love this story. And because I love it, I want to make it better. Everything I learned in the two years of writing it has gone into making it even better, and I'm excited to share that with you.

 **You might be wondering why exactly I can't keep updating here while revising and posting on AO3 at the same time.** I'm not completely opposed to doing this, but a major issue is, when working on both simultaneously, I struggle with maintaining the correct attitudes of the characters at different points in the story. For example, I feel that my revised Chapter 2 depicts Tom as being a little too good at romancing (haha) for that early point in the story, because I was still in the mindset of writing him as I would much later on. Maybe I will figure out how to manage that and do both, but for now, AO3 is where you can continue to read this fic.

 **I _could_ add to the story on this site by updating with certain scenes that I have already partly written.** For example, Tom going to Little Hangleton, where he meets and murders his father and grandparents; a scene in which Tom and Charlotte have a confrontation, and even a duel, due to the Gaunt ring, because it has the Deathly Hallows symbol on it, which Charlotte associates with Grindelwald; learning to cast a patronus, which of course Tom can't do; Charlotte visiting Valeria. But it would be just those scenes and not what connects them, because I'd rather spend the time it would take me to write that working on the new version. Those events I mentioned are much more certain, and won't change too much, so getting a draft done of them would even be helpful to me.

I understand that some people will be frustrated, or find it less interesting to read something you have (kind of) read before, and _I'm sorry to disappoint anyone_. However, on the positive side, my revisions have led to qualitative and quantitative improvement.

As far as word count is concerned, the quantitative improvement: I have written seven chapters so far on the revised version, but these seven chapters correspond to only the first four chapters of this version. (I'm caught up to the Christmas party.) I've already replaced chapter one here, so that's messing with my numbers a little bit, but if we just consider chapter two onward, in this version that is 6894 words, while the new version, reaching the same point in the plot, is 18552 words.

In addition to minor changes, there are plenty of _new scenes_ (I've included an excerpt a little further down!), which I hope will make rereading it more enjoyable if you decide to join me again over on Archive of Our Own.

Something that would be absolutely amazing, and I would appreciate so much, is if anyone wants to go back and leave comments on some of these chapters, pointing out anything that seem like it could have been done better. Since I'm rewriting it, that would be very beneficial. :)

One thing that has already come to my attention is Charlotte's inconsistent views about being pure-blood, especially the unrealistic delay in a conversation between her and Tom addressing the fact that he is not. (Now in Chapter 7 as opposed to Chapter 28.) I also now show Charlotte discovering and questioning her prejudice, which I think is really important. This also adds a super interesting dynamic to her and Tom's relationship that I am looking forward to writing.

The early development of Tom's relationship with Charlotte is also so much more complicated now (and allows for a better portrayal of Tom, I think). I haven't finished writing some of these parts yet, so this is still not on the AO3 version, but I've got it all planned out. What I've done so far involves more of Tom's thoughts than I included before. Here's an excerpt (Tom's POV) from the new Chapter 4, if you're interested:

"It's nice that our schedule today isn't entirely taken up by exams," Charlotte said.

"I would imagine they planned for us to use the time to study."

"I don't think they expect us to spend all of our spare time studying."

"And here I was thinking I would have you quiz me on dates from History of Magic," he replied, jokingly—although if she took the idea seriously he would not be opposed to it. She only laughed. After walking for a short time in silence, he noticed her pulling her cloak around her more tightly. "Cold?" he asked.

"Just a bit."

"I thought Valeria had solved that problem, or didn't she give you one of her latest creations?"

"Well after those third years accidentally set their robes on fire trying to duplicate the effects, Professor Slughorn suggested she not market those for now."

"You're serious?" He couldn't help laughing at the idea. "How did I not know about that...?"

"I don't know; it happened in the middle of the common room. You were probably in the library, since you practically live there." She smirked. And there was something about her tone.

He stepped into her path, facing her. "Are you teasing me, Charlotte?" Ordinarily, someone speaking to him like that would be cause for anger. But his feeling of success at having changed her attitude towards him so quickly won out over the annoyance and he was able to smile at her.

"I suppose I am," she said softly. There was no need to be very loud, as they were only inches apart.

"And what makes you think you can do that?"

"I didn't think there was a rule against it. But, if you insist on an answer, it's probably the same reason you didn't hesitate to put your hands on my waist just now." One side of her mouth curled up into another rendition of that smirk. Her eyes were saying a lot of things he didn't quite understand. Maybe because he was in such foreign territory, or maybe because he was distracted by how close her face was to his. Her lips in particular were drawing his attention.

He pulled her into a hug so that he wouldn't have to look at her anymore. "You won't be as cold now," he mumbled as an afterthought. He had been tempted to kiss her, but he didn't understand why he was having impulses like that. It was so beyond anything he was used to. It made pretending to love her easier, that was certain, but he wasn't exactly thrilled that somehow he was beginning to exhibit signs of loving her for real. The tumult of mixed emotions settled somewhat as he realized holding her still felt unnatural and uncomfortable to him. He held her tightly all the same, focusing not on the idea of wanting to be closer to her, but on how it made him feel in control.

* * *

Anyway, thank you SO MUCH again for your continued support, and I hope that you will keep reading on AO3!

If you are not interested in rereading everything you've read so far, edits or no edits, and would like me to let you know when the AO3 version reaches this point in the plot (i.e. Tom's stay with Charlotte's family), I would be happy to do that. It might be a while, but I will message you here, or notify you by some other means if you have a preference. (I don't own an owl though, so it will have to be through this Muggle internet thing.)

You can follow me, if you want, on Twitter ( topazrubyqueen) and Instagram ( chocolatefrogsandcauldroncakes), for more writing and Harry Potter content respectively.

Lastly, I know we're not supposed to post updates that are just an Author's Note, but I wanted to make sure everyone knew what was happening with this story, because it's sad for people to be waiting forever for an update that may never come.


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